


but then I said I love you

by PuddingTown



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier-centric, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love Triangles, Multi, it feels 90s but ya know Derry just never jumped into the future like everyone else did, this is basically a coming of age story for 20 year olds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuddingTown/pseuds/PuddingTown
Summary: Richie never wanted to be the guy who fell for his best friend. Of course, it's hard to stay friends when you add benefits to the mix.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is #dark and #edgy, probably. Not really, it's more like a modern day Reality Bites or something along those lines.

Cigarette smoke drifted high into the air, illuminated only by the flickering neon sign. A patron of the Falcon bar — which became twenty-four hours in 1985, then added karaoke in ‘89, and a bowling alley in ‘91 — stumbled across the sidewalk, awaiting his bus at the terminal. Flicking ash onto the pavement, he noticed a lonely van in the middle of the parking lot, but didn’t have much time to stare. His bus arrived, and he boarded, forgetting the rocking car entirely.

If he stared any longer, he might’ve seen the handprint pressing against the fogged window, slipping down from the condensation.

“Harder,” Eddie commanded, leaning back so his wet hand pressed down on Richie’s chest. He didn’t look at him; he rarely liked being face to face during sex, which Richie objected to quite often. His hands on Eddie’s hips, he stared at his ass, and the sweat sliding down Eddie’s back. “Come on, Richie.” From the tone of his voice, how it became more begging instead of demanding, Richie knew Eddie was close.

A truck passed, the bright headlights casting a glow on Eddie. Richie lied flat, losing his breath at the sight of him. His shoulders arched, and his face tilted toward the roof of the van. Groaning, Richie reached up, grabbing Eddie by his throat to pull him back. Kissing the nape of his neck, he took control, knowing full well Eddie wouldn’t mind at this point.

Flipping them over, he choked Eddie, thrusting faster. His movements became sloppier, and he dug his fingertips into Eddie’s smooth hip, keeping him still. When his back arched and he moaned Richie’s name, Richie fell against him, breathing hot on Eddie’s shoulder.

“I love you, Eddie,” he sighed contently, not even fully realizing what he said. Rolling his eyes, Eddie lied with his back to Richie, reaching for his clothes as he caught his breath. Watching him, Richie hesitated before brushing his fingers down Eddie’s spine. This made him freeze, and Richie’s heart slammed around in his rib cage. “I mean it. I love you.” Tugging his shirt over his head, and pulling his skirt over his hips, Eddie huffed. Opening the doors to Richie’s van, the cool night air hit them in a wave.

“That’s nice,” Eddie said flatly. He took a piece of gum from his bag, popping it into his mouth and throwing the wrapper on the ground without a second thought. As he adjusted his skirt, Richie handed him his shoes.

“Eds, can we just talk-”

“Pull your pants up, Richard,” Eddie scowled. Once his shoes were on, he walked away. Slumping on the shag carpet of his van, pressing his palms into his eyes, Richie groaned. His jeans were still around his ankles, his softening cock lying against his thigh. Wind pushed one of the doors shut, but he didn’t care. Nobody in Derry was awake at 3 AM. If they were, they wouldn’t leave the Falcon until every song on the karaoke machine had been given a drunk rendition.

Richie lied there for several minutes more, nearly falling asleep twice. When he finally pulled his jeans up and crawled out of the van, his back popped and protested at any stretching.

Grumpily, he started the vehicle, driving through the backroads of Derry’s least favorite shopping center. Once home to a bus terminal and the sole gay bar in town, the block now shared space with the bowling alley (families usually stopped visiting around 9 PM, though there was no official closing time as long as the bar was open), a mom-and-pop pizza joint, a laundromat, and a vintage video store. Richie applied when it first opened, thinking the nostalgia would be cool.

The owner was an elderly Russian woman, who lived above the store and didn’t believe much in boundaries. She expanded her rentals to adult videos, which Richie thought was a decent idea. Of course, in the beginning, it drew small crowds of angry Derry moms who thought the material was too obscene to set foot in their city. After a couple weeks, the rage cooled off, and everyone seemed to move on. No one on West Broadway would ever confess to the store existing though; anything shameful was swept under rug.

_ Doesn’t explain why that goddamn Paul Bunyan statue is still here, _ Richie thought, shuddering as he caught a glimpse of it in his side view mirror. Although he could’ve gone the shorter route, he chose to take Canal Street, scanning the area for Eddie. He drove slow, but it didn’t matter. Eddie was a ghost.

Shoulders slumping, Richie turned onto Main Street. The apartment he shared with Beverly was in view; the lights were on.

Two weeks before their high school graduation, Alvin Marsh drank himself stupid, and drove off the Kissing Bridge. He flew through the windshield of his truck, and landed in the Kenduskeag Stream. Nobody in town knew if he drowned, or if the vehicle landing on him killed him instantly, but there were plenty of stories about it. Elfrida Marsh grieved briefly, but promptly moved on by the end of summer. She collected a pension check on his behalf, but it wasn’t enough to support Beverly through college.

So Bev stayed.

Around the time her dad passed away, Richie put his savings towards an apartment near hers. Since neither of them were leaving Derry anytime soon, he figured rooming together would be better than dealing with their parents. Elfrida moved to Portland with her sister a year later, and Richie and Bev’s apartment was in a neighboring building, but even if she had no excuse to set foot in her old home, the toxicity was still within reach. On occasion, he wondered if remaining so close to home was good for her, but he never verbalized his concern. He figured she would’ve said something. He hoped she would.

Nearly four years later, and they hadn’t moved an inch. Stan only had a year left of college; he and Mike kept in touch the most after leaving Derry. Ben wrote the occasional letter from wherever he was stationed, but other than that, he was pretty silent. It didn’t bother Beverly much — their relationship ended when he enlisted. She later told Richie she thought it was better to give up now, rather than later, when life got too real. Her goal was New York, and Ben hated the city.

The plan was to move to Manhattan, once Beverly saved enough money to pay tuition for fashion school. It seemed though, there was never enough in their rainy day fund.

“Fuck, I’m ready for bed,” Richie mumbled, pocketing his keys and trudging up the stairs to his apartment. He was scheduled to work at the video store in ten hours, and he didn’t want to waste another minute of his free time. The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open, announcing his return. “Bev, honey, I’m home!” She didn’t answer.

Richie could hear water running in the bathroom, and he aimed to check on her, but paused when he noticed a blinking on the answering machine. Elfrida gave it to them as a housewarming gift, forgetting cell phones existed. While Bev and Stan thought it was cool, Richie was fully convinced she was unloading junk on them before her move. Clicking the play button, he rummaged through the fridge for a drink, unsurprised to hear Stan’s voice. He was the only one who called their machine.

“Hey guys, I wanna bring someone down this weekend. Is that okay? I can get a hotel room if there’s not enough space. Let me know,” he said. His messages were always abrupt, but so was he. Richie chuckled, popping the cap off his beer and walking to the bathroom.

The door was open, which meant she wasn’t doing anything she didn’t want him to see, so he poked his head in.

He nearly dropped his bottle at the sight of her.

“Don’t say anything,” Bev said. She tried to make it sound like a demand, but her resolve was too weak. Someone had beaten it out of her.

“Come here,” Richie sighed. Setting his beer down next to the toothpaste, he took a washcloth from the rack, running it under warm water. Carefully dabbing it against the blood on her nose, he examined the rest of her face. Nothing appeared to be broken, but he was seething regardless. “Who was it?”

“No one-”

“Bev-”

“I said no one, Richie-”

“The Hell it was!” Richie cried, exasperated. Bev flinched, and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should know better by now, I’m sorry. Just lemme help you finish cleaning.” She didn’t say a word, and Richie took that as his cue to keep working. Neither of them spoke while he disinfected the cut on her cheek, and handed her aspirin for the aches. Within fifteen minutes, he finished. “You hear Stanny wants to bring someone back to Derry?” Immediately, Bev smiled, though it was tentative. He could tell it hurt to smile too wide.

“Yeah. I wonder who it is. You know Stan has zero game,” Bev teased. Already, she was acting like herself again. Of course, it might’ve just been for Richie’s sake. She followed him into the kitchen, taking a pizza from the freezer and turning on the oven. Her demeanor changed when she set a timer and sat across from him, but Richie tried not to notice. He knew what was coming. “How’s Eddie?”

“Not tonight, Bev, babe,” he whined, quickly rising from his chair. His stomach growled loud enough for both of them to hear, and he huffed, slumping back into the seat. Even if they had to wait for their food to heat up, it didn’t mean they had to talk.

“Richie.”

“Everything was going fine, it was a normal night,” he groaned, burying his face in his arms. The tip of his nose touched the cold wood of the table, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to look at Bev.

When he didn’t continue, Bev prodded for more. She asked, “But..? What happened?” Lifting his head, only enough to rest his chin on his arms, he blew a strand of hair from his face.

“I told him I loved him.”

Beverly didn’t speak. Her expression immediately went blank, and she stood, going to the sink to busy herself with dishes. There were only two mugs and a couple spoons which needed cleaning, but she took her time. Richie watched the pizza cook through the glass; the aroma filled the room fairly quick.

“Is he still..?”

Knowing perfectly well what she referred to, Richie nodded.

“No, not from what I could tell. I tried looking for him after-”

“You let him get away?!” Bev dropped the spoons, a loud clatter filling the room, and Richie ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s impossible to catch him, babe. We both know that,” he whispered. Avoiding his gaze, Bev ignored the timer as it began buzzing. When she didn’t move to retrieve the pizza, he grabbed the oven mitts. As he set the pan on the stove, flicking off the oven, Beverly cleared her throat.

“Bill,” she said, almost too quiet for him to catch. Richie whirled around, burning his hand on the tray. Ignoring the searing pain, he stepped closer, waiting for her to repeat herself. “You remember Bill Denbrough?” He nodded, anxious as to where she was going with this. Bill hadn’t spoken to him much since graduation. His excuse wasn’t nearly as good as Stan, Mike, or Ben’s. He was stuck in Derry too, in the same house on Witcham Street.

“Yeah. What about him?”

“I went out with him tonight.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Attention shoppers!” Using his Mr. Moviefone voice – one of many Voices he perfected over the years – Richie read from a clipboard at the front desk. “Movies marked with the pink sticker are two for one. Take advantage of our Super Springtime Sale.” Dropping his tone lower, he rapidly read through Ms. Nikolaevna's disclaimers. “Offer not valid on new releases or adult purchases.” Snickering as he switched off the intercom mic, he crumpled the note from his boss, tossing it into the wastebasket.

“Tozier!” a sickeningly sweet voice called out, followed immediately by a hard _thwack_ to the back of his head. Richie hissed, his shoulders hunched. “You do these funny voices! No one take serious!” She huffed, and he held up his hands in surrender.

“My bad, Miss Niko,” he mumbled. She muttered under her breath, most likely swearing in Russian as she stormed through the store. Richie didn't know if "Nikolaevna" was her first or last name, but she never told him. It wasn't like he cared; this was a job and she was just another boss. She could've been better, but she also could've been much worse. At least she paid fairly.

Sweeping the front of the store, Richie kept himself busy until it was time to clock out. He punched his time card, grabbing his jacket from the hallway they called a break room. The narrow space was behind the checkout counter, across from Niko's office. There was a back exit, which led to the employee parking – also known as the smoking lounge. Other than that, there wasn't much but a couple untouched, dusty boxes, and a coat rack.

Using his entire weight to force the door open, Richie stumbled, almost dropping his cigarette.

“Fuck,” he grunted, balancing himself on the wall. He searched his pockets for a lighter, disheartened when he couldn't find it. If he were certain Niko wouldn't recruit him for more work, he would've gone back in. No smoke was worth that though.

Staring down at his cigarette, he saw a pair of feet below it. His focus on the cancer stick shifted, and it blurred in his view.

“Need a light?” a familiar voice asked. Grinning, Richie's eyes trailed up. Mike Hanlon stood before him, hands in his pockets. Clicking his tongue, he opened his arms, and Richie ran into them. Hugging him tight, he laughed. “Good to see you too, Trashmouth.” Hooking an arm around Mike's shoulders, Richie steered him away from the building.

“Whatcha doing here, Mikey? Not that I'm complaining- it's been too long,” he said, flicking away the cigarette. Lately, he only smoked after work or when he was bored; his friends typically curbed his worst habits.

“Spring Break. My parents wanted me to visit, and I couldn't be in Derry without seeing my best friends. You still live with Big Red?” Mike asked, ruffling Richie's hair. Pulling away, he fixed the tangled mess (though he couldn't truly make any improvements). He nodded, and Mike beamed. “Good. I wanna see her too.” Swinging his apartment key around his finger, Richie yanked it out of Mike's reach.

“First you gotta take me shopping,” he teased playfully. Mike rolled his eyes, but continued to follow him. Walking him through the neighborhood, Richie pointed out the changes Mike missed over the past few months. Mr. Keene's pharmacy was replaced with some out-of-towner's business. As far as Richie knew, Keene died and his kids were scattered through Maine. The old Ironworks was being rebuilt; their mayor cited “new jobs and prosperous opportunity” as the reason.

Catching the bus just in time, Richie unwound his headphones, sharing them with Mike. He scrolled through all the songs he liked, while Mike peered over his shoulder to observe the mess. When he chuckled, Richie shot him a weak glare.

“You ever think about using that little button there? Create a playlist?” Mike joked, elbowing Richie's arm gently.

“_Ugh!_ Fine, whatever!” Richie groaned. Clicking the button, he typed a title for the list without thinking.

**Songs For Mikey**

“Careful, Trashmouth. I'll think you're flirting with me.”

“That's my secret, Mikey. I'm always flirting.” Smacking his lips, Richie puckered them for a kiss. Of course, he didn't expect Mike to actually lean in and kiss him. His eyes shot open, but Mike pulled away too fast for him to react. Gulping, Richie stared down at his phone, silently adding songs to the playlist.

“I'm sorry-”

“No! No, it was cool, I just-” Richie hesitated, the thought of Eddie floating through his mind. “Nobody's ever called me on my bullshit. Not that flirting with you would be bullshit. You're a snack.” Mike rolled his eyes, laughing as he covered his face. Swatting Richie's hands away, he pointed to the phone.

“Put on some Digable Planets and shut up, would you?” Mike requested, snickering. Richie did as he was asked, reaching an arm around Mike's shoulders without a second thought. He forgot how easy it was to be with his best friends.

Of course he would forget though, when two of them were making it impossible.

With the sounds of trumpets in their ears, Richie playfully danced off the bus when it finally reached their stop. Mike stepped away from him, pretending they weren't together. The pair walked further down the street, stopping at the 7/11 in Richie's block. He and Bev applied together, but only she got the job. She always suspected the manager heard when he boasted about all the free Slurpees he planned to hook himself up with.

Stepping into the store, Richie made a beeline for the coffee. He glanced at the counter, almost surprised to find Beverly wasn't there. Trying to remember what day it was, he shrugged when he couldn't.

“Grab what you want, Mikey. It's on me,” he called out.

“Aren't you the big spender,” Mike said, bringing a soda to the register. Richie motioned at the lottery tickets, picking two out for the cashier to give him. Noticing Mike's quirked brow, he shrugged.

“Bev usually brings them home after her shift. If she's not here, I pick 'em up after work. It's a joke we got, I guess,” he explained. Paying for the haul, Richie slung the plastic bag over his shoulder. Although he couldn't remember when they started buying the scratch tickets, he knew he liked their nightly ritual. If he had a bad day at work, he would cool off by the time every number was revealed. If Bev had a bad date, the ticket would chill her out enough to let Richie clean her face.

“You know it's rigged,” Mike said, although the hopefulness in his voice told Richie he believed otherwise. Shrugging, Richie waved his hand at the tall building in front of them. From where he stood, he could see the window to Beverly's room was open. She was either smoking, or burned a pizza. “No judgement. I'd play if it meant I could pay off the student loans, but I got a better chance getting run over by someone on West Broadway.”

“Isn't that the dream?” Richie sighed longingly, batting his lashes. Mike pushed him playfully, although he had to agree. Everyone who lived on West Broadway came from old money, and essentially owned a sliver of Derry. They had a choke-hold on the town, which was the main reason all of the losers wanted to leave. At least in a big city, everyone could be somewhat anonymous. “What would you do? If you won – like, other than pay off lame ass loans?” Rubbing his chin – which Richie finally noticed was growing stubble, and he had to admit, he liked it – Mike thought for a moment before snapping his fingers.

“I'd start up a museum here. History and shit. You ever read about the history of this shithole? It's fucked up, but there's money in _'fucked up'_ these days,” Mike said, ignoring when Richie pretended to snore. “I'm serious! My dad used to tell me all kinds of stories- shit you wouldn't believe. It's cool.” He spoke of Will Hanlon fondly, and Richie always liked hearing Mike talk about him. Glancing at his watch, Mike sighed. “Speaking of, I gotta head out. I forgot, I told my mom I'd meet her for dinner at that Chinese joint. Tell Bev I'm in town, would you?” He held up his hand, jogging back to the bus stop. Richie waved after him, watching until he was out of sight.

* * *

Walking into the laundromat, no basket of clothes in sight, Richie bypassed all the machines and headed straight to the counter. Grinning, he leaned the top half of his body over it. Seated in the back, reading a magazine and blowing a big blue bubble, Eddie flipped mindlessly through the pages. Glancing up, he nearly choked on his gum.

“Relax _schweethart_, your sugar's here,” Richie said, putting on his Mobster Voice. Eddie laughed, coughing as he caught his breath, and hitting Richie's shoulder. He was smiling, which was already a good sign. Sort of. It meant he wasn't going to hold the “I love you” slip up against Richie. Sometimes he did, which resulted in a week of radio silence, but when he didn't, it was as though the moment never happened.

Honestly, Richie didn't know what was worse.

“Alright, Audra, my ride's here,” Eddie called out to someone in the back room. He didn't wait for a response. Lifting the part of the counter that separated him from customers, he took Richie's arm and followed him outside. “Where's the van?” Pointing out to the bar across the parking lot, he aimed a finger gun and fired.

“I felt like bowling, I wanted to see if you'd join me,” Richie offered. Eddie snorted, rolling his eyes so hard, Richie thought they might get stuck.

“You _felt like bowling_. Oh my God, that's such an old people thing to say,” Eddie teased. Poking at Richie's ribs, he giggled when he squirmed away. Richie hooked his arm around Eddie's neck, digging his knuckles into his perfectly quaffed hair.

“Maybe I am old. Maybe I'm too old for you,” he said, pretending to lament. Walking ahead without him, Eddie whirled around to make sure Richie followed. In all the years they'd known each other, he loved being chased. Richie couldn't resist; he'd had a crush on Eddie for as long as he could remember. The proof was in the ten year old carving on the kissing bridge.

Buying drinks and renting out shoes, Richie and Eddie picked a lane and sat down. There were blue and purple neon lights, highlighted with pinks and greens. The carpet was printed with a wacky design from the 80s, and not even the puke from Derry drunks could improve it. As much of an eyesore as the bowling alley was, Richie loved being here. He spent most of his childhood in the arcade; his parents let him roam freely while they played with Stan Uris and Bill Denbrough's parents.

“Aw, Eddie do you really need the bumpers?” Richie whined. Eddie stuck his tongue out, throwing his ball down the lane. Knocking over two of the side pins, he jumped, cheering for himself. Richie motioned for him to go again; when he played with his friends, they made their own rules. Putting on a voice, imitating a horse race announcer from the 50s, he ran up close to Eddie. Annoying him had always been fun, and no matter how old they got, his flustered face never stopped amusing Richie. “Kaspbrak lines up the throw. Aw folks, aw friends and neighbors, he has it in for these pins! He makes his throw and... Oh! What a heartbreaker, one pin left stan- Oh! Hold your horses, the pin is wobbling, it's wobbling, it's GONE!” Lifting his arm, Richie smiled when Eddie did.

“You're ridiculous, Richie!” Eddie shouted over the music. Wrapping an arm around Eddie's waist, Richie pulled him closer and swayed them. “Are we here to dance or to bowl?”

“To get drunk, honestly,” Richie said. Eddie nodded in agreement, going back to their table for his beer. Weaving their arms together, they took a drink.

Richie appreciated moments like these. In the glow of the light, he saw Eddie as his best friend again. Nothing changed between them. He used to tell Eddie everything; he never had to second guess what he wanted to say. Not until they started having sex.

Their first time was after Frank Kaspbrak died. A heart attack took him in the night, and nobody realized until the next morning. Sonia drove herself crazy with grief; she didn't recover, and sometimes Richie suspected Eddie didn't either. After the funeral, he disappeared from school. When a week passed and Richie hadn't seen him, he crawled through Eddie's window, just like he used to. He tried to give Eddie his space, but he was worried. The moment Eddie saw Richie, he kissed him.

“_I just need someone to hold me right now,” Eddie pleaded. Shocked, Richie didn't know how to respond. His hands shook as they squeezed Eddie's hips, and later, he would wonder if he made the right choice._

“_Yeah- yeah, of course.”_

_Naturally, they had sex._

_It started with a handjob. Eddie kissed along Richie's neck, reaching into his jeans._

“_I've always wanted to do this,” Eddie whispered, hardly needing to say anything else to convince Richie, who already sported an eager erection._

He assumed having sex wouldn't be too bad; he thought, perhaps Eddie needed a pick-me-up. Of course, Richard Tozier wasn't the best when it came to reading emotion. There _was_ more between them, but Eddie would never say it. Richie tried to ease them forward, believing enough time had passed to where they could drop the high school level pretenses, and get together at last. Eddie didn't want any of it though. He wanted sex, and he wanted his best friend, and Richie figured that was all a relationship needed anyway.

But lately, it was getting harder and harder to convince himself.

Tearing his gaze off Eddie, Richie froze when he spotted who walked into the bar. Bill Denbrough clocked in, high-fiving another bartender as he disappeared into the kitchen. Eddie was too focused on his fresh set of pins to notice Richie leaving. Of course, Richie didn't realize what he was doing until he was a foot away from Bill.

Two thin scratches were on his cheek – marks he assumed came from Beverly.

Bill's eyes widened in surprise, and he smiled at the sight of an old friend. Returning a smile (although fake), Richie swung his fist, hitting Bill square in the face. He hit the ground, and Richie straddled him, lifting him by his collar. Punching him again, ignoring the protest of the other bartender, he spit in Bill's eye.

“Just because you're a fucking loser, stuck here with the rest of us, doesn't mean you can take it out on her!” Slamming his fist into Bill's cheek this time, Richie huffed, climbing off. Outside, he saw a flash of red and blue light. Police were always on standby for the Falcon. He couldn't blame them.

Holding his hands up, Richie rolled his eyes as the officer read his rights and handcuffed him. Glancing over at Eddie, he tried to look as apologetic as possible. The cop yanked him around, roughly shoving him outside. His glasses fell off in the bar, and he could only hope Eddie would bring them over once he got out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those train wrecks!

One of the officers – Jude Tracker; a kid from Richie's graduating class, whom he used to play baseball with when the Tracker family owned the lot – unlocked his cell, sliding the door open. He wasn't there for longer than half an hour, which either meant his mom was waiting to scold him, or Bev managed to get another day off. Peering around the concrete wall, his shoulders slumped and he sighed with relief.

Beverly was signing papers, chewing her bottom lip as she scribbled her signature. Richie's eyes lit up when he saw who stood behind her.

“Stan the man!” Richie shouted, ignoring the policemen as he breezed past them and embraced Stan in a tight hug. Pulling back, he paused, noticing the brunette at his side. “I'm making a hell of a first impression, huh?” Sticking out his hand, he flashed a smile to the new girl. “Richie Tozier, at your service, ma'am.” She chuckled and shook it quickly, moving closer to Stan. He wrapped an arm around her, his brow raised.

“This is Patty, my girlfriend,” Stan introduced her, but Patty held up a finger.

“It's Patricia, really, but you can call me Patty, or Trisha. Your pick,” she said. The way she spoke reminded him a lot of how Stan would talk when they were kids. He meant every word he said, but there was a dryness to the end of each sentence. Only Stan's best friends could truly know when he was joking. Right now, Richie wanted to say Patty's statement was a playful test. If he chose wrong, she'd give him shit for it.

Rubbing his chin, as if he needed to mull over the options, Richie finally said, “Trisha's pretty punk rock.” She nodded, grinning as she exchanged looks with Stan.

From this interaction alone, Richie wanted to tease his friend about finding a manic pixie dream girl. Except... Stan was always a bit of a walking John Green novel, and as he watched them hold a silent conversation, he felt a twinge of jealousy. He used to be the only one who could _get Stan_ the way Patty did now.

A smile stretched across his face though; he liked seeing Stan wrapped up with someone. He always thought his friends deserved to be happy.

Turning to Bev, he thought she'd be smiling as well.

Instead, she was glaring at him. They shared their own wordless conversation; she spent money they didn't necessarily have on his bail. Grabbing her hand, he ran a thumb across her palm. She tried to avoid his apologetic stare, but after a moment, her shoulders slumped.

“You're lucky we have company,” she mumbled under her breath.

Leaning over to kiss her cheek, he whispered back, “I'm sorry, Bev.” He meant his apology; she knew as much. Compared to her father, and the string of men she dated after his death, Richie's apologies were the only ones she heard differently. When Richie apologized, he fixed his mistakes. He made efforts. Out of all their friends, she loved him the most, and it was for that very reason.

“Come on, Bevs, you promised me a spectacular evening at the fair!” Patty shouted as they left the station. Richie paused, groaning when he realized what she meant.

“Not the Canal Days _Fart!_ Red, tell me you didn't plan on entertaining our guests with rigged games and creepy clowns!” he cried. Patty clicked her tongue, her arms wrapped around Stan's. She perched her chin on his shoulder, nuzzling her nose against his cheek.

“Actually, she and Stan _both_ did – and I'll have you know, I _love_ creepy clowns. I wanna get a selfie,” she said. Pulling him along by his wrist, Patty and Stan veered off in the wrong direction. Richie wanted to follow, and let them wander for a while, but Bev was considerably nicer.

“This way,” she called out, guiding them to the park. His hands in his pockets, Richie followed along. Bev filled the silence with catching Stan up on Derry gossip, and explaining most of it to Patty. When she wasn't talking, she was asking for details on Stan's college life, or how he met his new girlfriend. Richie was uncharacteristically silent, which Stan didn't fail to notice, but he didn't comment just yet. He eyed him a few times, questioning him when their gazes met, but Richie shrugged him off.

Truthfully, he hated fairs. He hated lunch dates and movies and nightclubs. Anything that reminded him he was alone (which was damn near everything these days), he couldn't stand. Richie especially hated carnivals and fairs because of how much hope he used to feel whenever he brought Eddie.

As children, they would combine their allowances to splurge on cotton candy and funnel cakes. Richie would blow ten dollars on a fifty cent toy, just to impress Eddie. It always worked in the end; Eddie would kiss Richie's cheek, even if it were only playfully, and they would end the night on the Ferris wheel. Once, there was a photo both at the fair. Richie still had the strip of pictures they took. In the last one, Eddie held up his hand to block the camera, but he remembered they didn't actually kiss. Eddie beamed at him, attempting to hold back laughter. His whole body shook when he burst with giggles, the flash momentarily blinding Richie.

“There's a trick to these games, you know,” Patty whispered, elbowing Richie's ribs. He flinched, startled out of his daydream. The memory of Eddie's face vanished from his mind like a wisp of smoke.

“What?” Richie shook his head, looking around for Patty. She didn't seem to notice his misstep, and if she did, she was polite enough not to call him out. He looked out to see Stan and Bev at one of the games; their goal was to knock over a stack of bottles, using the four balls in front of them. Pointing, Patty craned her neck and stood on the tips of her toes to see around their friends.

“There's a trick,” she repeated. Scooting Richie to the side, she waited for Stan to throw a couple times. “The bottles on the bottom are weighted. It'd be impossible to knock them over with just those softballs – except, maybe for one. It keeps up the illusion that the game is winnable. One of those balls is also weighted, but neither of them know it. So the throw will either get lucky, or-” As if on cue, Stan threw his last ball, missing entirely. Bev shrugged, laughing at their failed attempt.

“How about one more try for the lovely lady? On me,” the carnie offered. It was a woman roughly their age, wearing a red and white pinstripe jacket with a matching hat. Her hair was wild and wavy, cascading down her shoulders and perfectly framing her dark face. She was the hottest carnie Richie had ever seen, but she only seemed to have eyes for Bev.

“Lemme have next game, while she's trying with that free throw,” Patty interrupted, slapping down her tickets. The woman pushed the remaining balls to her, and when Stan was close enough, she joked, “I love holding big balls.” Stan's face flushed tomato red, and Richie's eyes watered as he covered his mouth to hold in the laughter. Patty felt each one, pausing on the fourth try. Tossing it from hand to hand, she nodded before throwing it at the stack of bottles.

She aimed for the bottom, which tipped them all in her favor. Shooting her fists in the air, she pointed to one of the teddy bears in the middle row. The carnie pulled it down for her, making it dance as she walked the toy over.

“Winner winner winner! Anyone can win! Step right up!” she shouted. No one paid attention, though. Shrugging, the woman snagged another toy from higher up on the shelves, passing it to Beverly. She was speaking low, whispering things to Bev that Richie had no hope of hearing until later. Patty and Stan were already meandering towards another ride, leaving him on his own.

Sighing, Richie folded his arms over his chest and whirled around. He spotted the bathrooms, and briskly walked over, hoping to hide until his friends were ready to go home. In the safety of these concrete walls, he expected to be left alone.

What he walked into was better.

Mike Hanlon stood in front of the broken sink, peeling a layer of aluminum foil off a thumb-sized chocolate cookie. He froze upon hearing Richie's footsteps, but relaxed as soon as he realized who it was. Grinning, he broke the sweet in half.

“I didn't know you were here! C'mon, join me. I know you like this flavor,” Mike offered, waving the edible back and forth. A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth up, and Richie closed the distance between them, snatching his share of the cookie. They ate their pieces at the same time, snickering as they chewed. Mike stuck out his tongue first, and Richie copied, as if they were children trying to prove they swallowed their medicine.

“What brings you here? With _contraband?_” Richie asked, faking offense. Shrugging, Mike crumpled up the foil and tossed it in the toilet. Hitting the handle with his shoe, they watched the evidence swirl in the porcelain bowl, then disappear.

“Mom and Dad went to visit my uncle for the night, and I told them I had an assignment I should start on. I was gonna text y'all to come hang out. Is Bev here too?” Mike's hands clapped Richie's shoulders, wheeling him around and leading him back outside. Shielding his eyes from the bright carnival lights, he pointed to the games.

Bev still stood with the nameless woman, laughing at something she said. She was leaning over the counter, and Richie recognized her movements. The way she threw her head back and laughed, the way she ran a hand through her hair... Bev was flirting.

Unable to resist, Richie nudged Mike and started walking over.

Clasping his hands on her shoulders, he roared, “What do you think you're doing, Miss Marsh?!” Bev squealed, jumping in her spot. Her butt came down on the counter, and the carnie was surprised by how close they suddenly were. Immediately though, Bev scooted away.

Shooting a glare at Richie, she smoothed down her shirt and said, “Beep beep, Rich. I'm kind of in the middle of- Mike!” The moment she saw him, her hard stare disappeared. Her eyes widened and she ran, jumping again, but this time into Mike's arms. He spun her around, kissing the top of her head when he set her down.

Noticing the way the carnie studied them, Mike chuckled and called out, “Sorry to interrupt! I'm an old friend!” Bev looked over her shoulder, smiling from the woman to Mike. Holding his hand – and grabbing Richie's – she led them back to the counter. While another couple played the game, the woman in the pinstripe jacket smiled down at Beverly.

“Guys, this is Kay. You won't believe what her opening line to me was-”

“We don't really have to air out my dirty laundry already, do we? I'm still laying down the charm,” Kay protested, although the grin on her face said she didn't mind at all. Bev giggled; for the first time in a long time, Richie saw she was completely comfortable. It always weighed on his mind how close they were to her childhood home, and part of the weight came from seeing how she squirmed in her seat.

How she always looked over her shoulder.

It was easy for her to forget when they were together, but something about her lightness now, reminded him of their youth. On the days they hid away in their clubhouse, she would laugh with her whole body, and none of them would've suspected what she went home to. Of course, that could've been said for each one of the losers. Everyone had some damage.

“You guys ditched me, and Kay laid it on _thick_. She said, _'I like to travel, but I don't usually stop in small towns like this. I thought to myself, why am I here? Then you came up to this booth and I got my answer.'_ Isn't that just..?” Bev shook her head, unable to find the word she wanted to describe Kay's flirting. Richie's brow rose. It wasn't the worst line he'd ever heard, but he certainly did better with Eddie.

Beverly was responding positively though, so Kay at least beat him there.

She laughed again at something Kay said, and Richie exchanged a glance with Mike. Before they could excuse themselves however, Bev was shooing them away.

“It's a free country, Bevvers! What if I wanna play this fixed ass game?” Richie demanded teasingly, hopping from one foot to the other around Bev. She groaned, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him a few feet back.

“Let me enjoy this, please!” she shouted, laughing as Richie slumped against her. Grabbing his hands, Mike pulled Richie away, winking at Bev. “Thank you!” She turned back to Kay, swiping another ball from behind the counter to try the game again.

Leading Richie away from the booths, the pair stopped near the stage. A local band performed to a medium-sized crowd. Their energy and sound was too juvenile for most of Derry; the people dancing along all appeared to be high school students.

Twirling Richie around, Mike asked, “You wanna dance?”

“They're up there calling Simple Plan _oldies_, and you think I wanna dance?” Richie waited for a few moments, but Mike's smile never faltered. “You're right, I do.” Spinning him again and again, Mike led them closer to the stage. They danced – and Richie used the term loosely – longer than he expected.

Long enough for the moon to move higher above them.

Long enough for the drugs to kick in.

His feet were heavy as he followed Mike across the park. He shoved a wad of tickets into someone's hand and stumbled up a set of stairs. Before he realized he was in a funhouse, he stood in the center of a mirror maze. His reflection surrounded him, and he almost lost his balance. However, Mike caught him before he could bump into anything.

Staring up at him, Richie inhaled a strong whiff of his cologne. Mike's body was warm against his, and his arms were wound tightly around him.

Richie didn't have to think twice before kissing him.

Quickly though, he pulled away, hitting his head on the mirror.

“Fuck, I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I shouldn't-”

But Mike shushed him.

Holding a finger to Richie's lips, he pulled it away only to kiss him again.

“Trust me. I am totally okay with this,” he said.

* * *

Although he couldn't say for certain how he got home, Richie remembered falling off the stairs of the funhouse. His chin was scratched up, but he didn't care. People stared at him and Mike as they passed, and he held up his middle fingers to most of them. Mike was quick to cover the obscene gesture; both of them cackled like hyenas as they left the fair.

The apartment wasn't a terribly long walk away.

Of course, it was long enough for Richie to be insatiable by the time he unlocked the door. Kicking it shut, he pinned Mike to the table. Shoving the bowl he left this morning, he giggled when it clattered on the linoleum floor.

“The _bedroom_, Richie-”

“No time,” Richie mumbled, sucking on Mike's collarbone.

Groaning, Mike gave in for just a split second, before hoisting Richie up and carrying him into the living room. He couldn't deny it though: the bedroom was too far.

They tore at each other's clothes greedily; Mike's shirt ended up somewhere in the kitchen, while Richie's was on the coffee table. Jeans and boxers were around their ankles; if there wasn't any time to get to the bedroom, there wasn't time to completely undress.

Mike worked with an urgency, working a finger into Richie's ass while his tongue toyed with his cock. Sucking Richie off, he hummed with satisfaction when Richie moaned. A string of saliva connected them when he pulled his mouth away, pushing in a second finger.

“Lube?”

With his head leaned back, Richie whined, “No time-”

“You'll thank me for it later,” Mike insisted. He reached past Richie, grabbing a bottle of lotion from the side table. It was from one of Bev's splurges at Bath & Bodyworks, and he knew he'd owe her for it later.

_It's worth it_, Richie thought, rolling over as Mike lubed himself up. His own cock throbbed, aching to be touched. Unwilling to deny himself the simple pleasure, he began stroking his length. Mike was touching his asshole again; his cock prodded Richie carefully.

When he slid inside, Richie's back arched. Mike was bigger than Eddie, and as much as Richie had gotten used to this feeling, it still required adjusting. He gripped the rug beneath him, a gasp escaping his lips. Mike kissed along his shoulders, and all the feelings accumulated at once in the pit of his stomach. His balls felt tight, and a spasm rolled through his body, racing to a peak.

_It's only been a minute! Wait, _he thought, desperately trying to calm down. He'd had sex high before, but it never hindered his performance. Of course, he was always the one on top. Mike was _new_, but even in this uncharted territory, Richie felt a love he craved for so long in the simple embraces. He felt _wanted_, and it was driving him insane.

“M-Mike...” he moaned, his thighs shaking as Mike picked up speed. The apartment was silent except for the ticking of their clock, and the slap of his skin against Mike's.

Richie tried to hold off; using all of his willpower, he prolonged the orgasm. He was so focused, he didn't noticed the voices in the hallway-

“-just wanted to see how he was. After the fight, and all.”

“Of course, yeah- Oh my God!” Bev shouted. Shocked, Mike pulled out of Richie, scrambling for his jeans. They had completely come off during the course of their hookup, and he covered his twitching erection with the clothes. Waving sheepishly, he hesitated in confusion for only a second more, then disappeared into the bathroom.

Patty's eyes were shut, and her hands were clasped over her ears. Bev peeked through her fingers, closing the gap again when she saw Richie hadn't moved. His cock was still out; dark pink, shiny, _leaking_.

Although he was high, Richie noticed the quirk in Stan's brow. He wasn't annoyed he walked in on mindless fucking. He was _pissed_.

He was pissed at _Richie_.

And Richie's heart sank, because behind all of them, Eddie stood with a wounded look in his eyes. It lasted only for a brief second, before he masked it with nothing. His face was unreadable as their gazes met, locked for what felt like a small eternity. Richie's lips parted, but the words were lost on him.

Turning around, Eddie stormed off without a word.


	4. Chapter 4

Beverly took Kay and Patty out to brunch. Richie supposed he should've been grateful everyone was getting along, except that wasn't quite true. The girls were awful friendly, but he and Stan were trapped in the apartment with nothing but angry silence between them. He didn't fully realize it until he tried to make breakfast. Stan read the paper and sipped at coffee, but the moment Richie stepped in, he excused himself without a word.

When Richie tried to join him in the living room, Stan cut off the TV and left for the kitchen.

Scowling, he followed Stan, cornering him by the stove.

“What's the damage, Staniel? C'mon, I know you better than anyone else, and I know when you're pissed. What'd I do this time?” Richie asked. While he had an idea of what bothered Stan, he didn't want to pursue the option yet. He didn't peg Stan as someone so... possessive.

“I don't wanna talk about it-”

“The Hell you don't!” Richie huffed, folding his arms over his chest. He didn't budge, and Stan knew perfectly well he wouldn't. Sighing, rubbing his temples, he slumped against the wall.

“Don't you think it's a little tacky to go after my ex?” Stan asked, and even as he looked away, Richie could see the embarrassment on his face. More than anything, he was surprised. Stan _was_ possessive. Maybe he was justified; perhaps this even made sense.

When he dated Mike in high school, they were inseparable. No matter how far apart they started out in a room, they would gravitate towards each other. Some part of Mike always had to touch Stan. Hand holding. An arm wrapped around the waist or shoulders. Legs tangled.

If Richie wanted to point fingers, he could've said their relationship was the catalyst for Bill's distance to the group. The losers were fine before everyone decided to pair off in cozy relationships. Richie and Eddie were a perfect example.

“Don't you think it's lame to be mad over this? Especially when you have a girlfriend?” Richie argued, his brow furrowing. He noticed now, Stan changed. Naturally they all would as they grew up, but he couldn't put his finger on _how_ Stan was different. He didn't like being on the outside of the tiny circle Stan kept.

“That's not the point,” he scowled, shooting a glare at Richie. Of course, Richie didn't back down, and Stan's glare softened. “Forget it, I'm sorry-”

“No, you opened this can of worms and I'm picking through each one!” Richie shouted. Groaning, Stan marched past him, back to the living room. Grabbing his arm, Richie's hand slid down to his wrist. They stood in the archway, the split of linoleum and carpet meeting directly below their touching fingertips. “Admittedly, I'd be pissed if one of you went after Eddie.” Scoffing, Stan pulled his hand away.

Although the motion wasn't entirely malicious, Richie felt stung. He couldn't hold on to his best friends; Bill crossed over to the dark side, Eddie's personality hid underneath layers of a cold and distant stranger, Ben's weekly calls became monthly, then seldom, and now Stan was mad for reasons Richie couldn't fully grasp. He didn't want to end this argument knowing that he and Stan weren't best friends like they used to be.

“It's not the same. You and Eddie aren't even together,” he said. As soon as the words left his lips, however, Richie saw the regret in his eyes. Stan's lips pressed into a thin line, and he sighed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“Yes, you did,” Richie mumbled. Turning away, he stared out of the slender kitchen window. Bev couldn't find any curtains to fit over it, so she cut a spare in half. The jagged shearing left spaces for him to see through; not much, but he could see anyone passing on the opposite side of the street. “Whatever. Talk to Mike if you have a problem. He kissed me first, if we wanna get technical.” It wasn't a total lie; the bus ride home counted.

“Richie-”

“There's a spare key in the drawer by the sink, if you wanna go out. I'll see you later,” Richie called over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him as he walked into the hall.

Although he didn't have a destination in mind, his feet carried him exactly where he wanted to go. Wandering down Witcham Street, he passed Bill's childhood home. Most of their time was spent in his tree house, before they met the rest of the gang and built the Losers Club.

Pausing in the middle of the sidewalk, Richie considered turning and heading for the Barrens.

He had a mission though, and he didn't need any excuses to chicken out.

Eddie's house stood in the center of Jackson Street, amidst all the action. Most of the properties were sold off to incoming businesses, but Sonia refused to abandon the place where she built her family. As crazy as she was, Richie had to admire that. About a year ago, she suffered a stroke, and Eddie encouraged her to move in with her sister. He promised to take care of the house while she was in New York, and he opened the spare rooms to travelers. The money kept him afloat, but losing his mother pushed Eddie even further from Richie's grasp.

The year she left was the same year he started abusing her forgotten Valium. It wasn't a crippling addiction for him; Richie caught him twice, but afterward, he never saw Eddie under the influence again. For a couple weeks though, he and Bev were terrified. He wondered if there would come a time where he drove around at night and found Eddie in the park, or under the Kissing Bridge looking to score. If anyone was an addict in Derry, it always seemed to start with the prescribed pills.

Even now, months after the ordeal, Bev would ask about Eddie's condition. Richie never let her finish the question, afraid of hearing the terms “using,” or “addiction.” He didn't want to associate it with him – not when they didn't have to. After everything they'd gone through, Richie thought it was time to start fresh.

He walked to Eddie's house with a sense of purpose; he wanted to be together. Mike was a fun hookup, but _he_ felt like the friend with benefits. Eddie had always been more.

Lightning flashed overhead, with thunder rumbling not far behind. A few droplets of rain fell, but nothing heavy yet.

Richie stopped on the sidewalk in front of Eddie's house. The lawn needed mowing, and several of the shingles over the porch had fallen off. He wondered what it would've been like if he lived with Eddie; him, Beverly, and Eddie sharing a house and living in peace for the first time in their lives. Perhaps they would've been happier. Richie couldn't dwell on the thought. He stared into Eddie's window, and Eddie stood, staring back. Lifting his hand to wave, Richie froze when the curtain moved, and another man became visible behind Eddie. The man kissed his neck, wrapping an arm around Eddie's waist.

Dropping his hand, Richie shoved them in his pockets, whirling around in the opposite direction from which he came.

* * *

Desperate to avoid his apartment, Richie went to work on his day off. The extra cash would help pay off what he owed to the rainy day fund, even if the store closed early on Sundays – much too early for his liking. He kicked a rock down the street, taking the long way around after being sent home. The sun wouldn't set for another hour, but as he made his way up the stairs, he kept his fingers crossed. Maybe Stan and Bev tried another double date.

“Anyone home?” Richie called out as he cracked the door. At first, no one responded. The lights in the kitchen were off, which was a good sign so far.

“Where've you been all day?” Bev's voice rang through the hall, and Richie hit his forehead against the door frame. Sighing, he shut it behind him, tossing his keys on the table. When Beverly appeared in the archway, she looked as though she'd been in her room the entire afternoon. She wore a long t-shirt which reached her knees, no bra or heavy eyeliner, and her hair was fluffy – the same way Richie's would get if he let it air dry after a shower.

“Work. Thought I'd pick up some hours,” he said. He was full of technical fibs today, but he didn't see the harm. “What about you? You're in post-breakup clothes. I haven't seen you this comfy since...” Richie tapped on his chin, trying to remember the name of the last serious boyfriend, but only Ben came to mind. Their split was mostly mutual, but she still mourned. Hell, Richie did too. Ben broke up with all of them when he left Bev.

“I'm just relaxing tonight. Is that a crime?” she challenged. Richie held up his hands in surrender.

“No, no, but like... you could be out getting laid. Kay not good enough for you?” he teased. Bev threw the magazine in her hand at Richie. From the way she blushed, he could tell she was serious about this new woman. Opening the fridge, he rummaged around for a beer. “Hey, if you guys kiss, can I watch?”

“Richie!”

Cracking off the cap, Richie took a swig and belched. He pantomimed opening a telescope, viewing her through his semi-closed hands as he asked, “If you two do it, can I join?”

“Richard!” Beverly's tone, although full of laughter, had a hint of warning. Holding up his hands again, he sat at the table.

“Sorry, sorry, I'll stop.” Setting the bottle down, he looked through the small stack of mail. Light bill. Water bill. Rent. Bills, bills, bills. “Good thing I put in hours, huh?” Glancing out at the apartment, Richie thought about much needed upgrades. The wallpaper yellowed and peeled long before they arrived. Fortunately, there were no bugs on their floor. Their apartment was okay, but nothing spectacular. They didn't have much, but it was a home; Richie was warm when he walked through the door. Relieved. “Why don't you call Kay up? Invite her for dinner?”

“Now?!” Bev shrieked. Richie waved his hand as he drank.

“No, but... I dunno. Soon, if you want. I wanna meet her for real. If you really like her- I mean, I screen all your boyfriends, don't I?” he asked. Bev slowly approached the table, sitting in the chair beside him. “Or was that what Trisha was doing today? Is she your new wingman?” He couldn't pretend the idea didn't hurt. Bev relied on him for this; he liked having the job with her.

“Don't be silly,” Bev said, reaching out to touch his hand. She could tell something was wrong, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. Sometimes he hated how well they all knew each other. Ignoring the sickness sinking in his stomach, Richie cupped her cheek in his palm. Gently, he ran his thumb over the fading bruise on her face.

“She seemed cool, Bev. You deserve cool. You deserve better than what you've been given,” he said. He thought she might agree with him. Usually, she would. Instead, her bright eyes were glaring. Yanking herself back, she huffed.

“I don't need you to worry about me,” she said. Annoyed, she turned her body away, although she didn't leave the chair. He wasn't sure what made him rise to his feet; he didn't like standing over her, but he didn't want to back down from this. Maybe he was blowing up at the wrong person; whatever the case, he couldn't stop the flow of word vomit which fell from his lips.

“Yeah, well I think I _do_! I worry about you, but not like your fucked up, creepy dad! Bev, I love you, okay? And I don't know what I'd do if I turned on the news and found out one of your shitty boyfriends got popped for killing you!” he shouted. Bev's eyes were glossy as she stared up at him. Ashamed by the fear in her expression, Richie plopped back onto his seat. He rubbed his arm, pulling away from Bev when she reached out.

“You- I-” Bev cleared her throat, struggling for words. “What happened with Bill was-” But she stopped herself, knowing there would never be a good way to finish the sentence. Richie could feel her staring, but he refused to meet her gaze. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her forehead pressed to his temple.

Spotting the scratchcards underneath their weekly ads, Richie slid Beverly's over to her. He fished a penny from his pocket, setting it on her side of the table. Using the jagged edge of his house key to strip off the thin paint, he held his breath as the numbers and symbols revealed themselves. After watching him for a few seconds, Bev began to do the same. Their little rituals were intimate moments, whether it was him cleaning her face, or the sound of coins scratching the stiff tickets.

After a while, all their numbers were revealed, and silence filled the kitchen again.

“Nothing?”

“Not yet.”

Finally, Richie stole a peek at her.

“I love you, Richie,” she whispered. His mouth curved up in a small, apologetic smile. Hugging her carefully, he ruffled her hair.

“I love you too, Bev. Come on, let's go to bed,” he said. Lifting her out of the chair, despite her protests, he twirled her around the room, back to the hallway. Dropping her on the mattress, he landed close beside her. Sometimes, when they didn't want to be alone, they'd share a bed. Richie wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her tight. If everything else had to change, he hoped he could always have this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, we have conflict!

“_What?!_”

Answering his phone angrily, Richie sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. There was a folded note in Bev's spot, which he would've smiled at had he woken up on his own terms. He didn't check to see who called. All he wanted was for the obnoxious ringing to stop.

_Why was the volume even on? Who does that- I never do that,_ he thought grumpily. Someone on the other end spoke, and he mumbled his responses, barely conscious. The person repeated themselves, but Richie wasn't any more awake.

“Bail is gonna be about a hundred bucks,” the person said.

“Wait, what?” Richie snapped out of his daze, his eyes wide open. The cop huffed, shuffling papers around.

“Bail. Hundred bucks. Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“For what?!” His voice cracked, and he listened to the charges. Expecting the worst, his face paled, and his mouth was suddenly dry. As quickly as he could, he found his keys and sprinted from the apartment. Stan and Patty were asleep on the pull-out couch, but he paid little mind to them. He didn't realize he forgot his shoes until he ran across the warm pavement, but he couldn't have cared less. Hopping in the van, he tried starting the ignition. The car wheezed and puffed, but didn't start. “Oh, come on, not now! Not now! Fuck!”

Slamming his hand against the wheel, he slumped face-first against the horn. Breathing hard, he thought about what the policeman said. He needed a hundred bucks to bail Eddie out, whom they found sleeping on a bench in Bassey Park. They got an anonymous tip there were solicitors on the grounds. His stomach churned, and as soon as he thought about it, he leaned out of his window to vomit.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Richie climbed out of the van, trudging back up to his apartment. He forgot everything he would've needed; his ID, money, phone. Dialing Mike's number, he put it on speaker and listened to the ringing while fishing money from the rainy day fund. At this rate, he figured it was more of a bail bond jar. Only sixty dollars was left after Richie took what he needed.

“Hello?”

In the other room, Stan began to stir. Huffing, Richie swiped up the phone, taking it off speaker. Tiptoeing to his room, he covered his mouth as he spoke.

“Mike? Hey, can you come over? Eddie got arrested, and I need a ride to the police station,” he said in a hushed tone. Mike was quiet on the other end. “Mikey?”

“Yeah, I'll be right there, man. Did they say for what?” he asked. Richie could hear him getting out of bed. As he dressed, Richie mulled over what he knew. Against his better judgment, he imagined Eddie meeting strange men on the weather-worn benches, touching them or letting them touch him. His hand curled into a fist.

“I don't know. Maybe he was drunk or something,” Richie mumbled.

“Alright, well hang on. I'll be over in about fifteen minutes.” Mike ended the call, and Richie threw his phone on the bed. It bounced, clattering on the floor, but he couldn't be bothered to pick it up. Lying down, he covered his eyes with his forearm. Although he didn't intend to drift off again, he fell asleep faster than he ever had in his life. He felt himself sinking, but he didn't jerk awake.

The next time he opened his eyes, thirty minutes had passed.

“Fuck,” Richie hissed, grabbing his phone. Mike texted him twice.

**7: 39 I'm outside.**

**7: 47 Okayyyy, I'll come up.**

It was now 7:55. Scrambling out of the room, scurrying through the kitchen, Richie yanked the front door open. In the hallway, Stan and Mike stood close to each other, silent the moment he stepped out. Glancing over his shoulder at Patty, Richie scratched the side of his nose and promptly shut the door.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” Richie asked, batting his lashes at them. Mike snickered, but Stan rolled his eyes. “Stan, if Bev comes back early, tell her not to look at the money jar on the fridge. It's just better that way.” He aimed to leave with Mike, but neither he, nor Stan moved. Sighing, Richie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Eddie was doing something at the park. The cops picked him up and called me first thing this morning.” Stan's eyes widened, his jaw dropping.

The worst part was not knowing _when_ Eddie was taken into custody. Derry police didn't like to disturb residents unless absolutely necessary. Their calls waited until early morning, and they wouldn't call after nine in the evening; Eddie could've been there all night. Richie didn't expect an explanation.

Not feeling remarkably chipper, Richie barked, “Are you gonna gawk all day, or are you coming with us?” At once, Stan's shock became irritation. Quite frankly, Richie was getting sick of it. Noticing the tension, Mike's eyes flickered from one friend to the other.

“Should I even ask what's going on?”

“Ask him,” Richie huffed, whirling around to leave. “He's the one with the problem.” Scowling, Stan shook his head.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said. Richie paused, standing a few feet away now. Mike hadn't moved, and suddenly Richie feared Stan _would_. Turning quickly again, he reached out to grab Stan's wrist before he could go back into the apartment. Thinking of Eddie affected all of his interactions with his friends; they all used to be so close.

“I'm sorry. Look, just- come with us,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. Stan's eyes were locked on Richie's hand. His grip was still firm. “I don't wanna lose you over this.” Even without context, Mike understood the gravity of those words. He looked between Stan and Richie again, before placing his hand over theirs.

“Come on, Stanney. I haven't seen you in a long time,” Mike said. Stan's shoulders slumped; he stared at Mike with a longing Richie could only imagine was in his own eyes when he looked at Eddie. He wondered what Patty would've said had she been there to see.

Hurrying down the stairs, Richie scanned the parking lot for Mike's car. He made it to the vehicle first, grinning as he opened the front passenger door. Behind him, Stan cleared his throat. When Richie peeked over his shoulder, he saw Stan with his arms folded over his chest, and his foot tapping expectantly.

“Oh, don't be a big baby about this,” Richie groaned. Stan smiled, and he recognized it at once. This was playful. Familiar. It knocked the weight from his shoulders, and Richie gladly moved aside for Stan to take shotgun. When he dated Mike, he refused to give up the seat. It was one of the many perks, he had joked.

Climbing in the back, Richie was uncharacteristically silent. If Stan and Mike noticed, they were trying hard to avoid keeping the car quiet. They made the drive go quicker than Richie expected, talking about their college lives and their homes outside of Derry. He didn't interrupt, but if their goal was to keep Richie's mind off Eddie, they were doing a terrible job. While he was perfectly happy for his friends, and the achievements they made outside of Derry, he couldn't help but greedily take it all back to Eddie. He should've left too, and he should've had a better life than the one he was stuck with. Eddie and Beverly both deserved more, and sometimes, Richie let himself think that the only similarity between them, was _him_.

Parking outside of the police station, on the side of the building rather than directly in front, Mike glanced at Richie in the rear view mirror. Richie, however, paid no attention to either of them. Swiftly stepping out, he clenched the money in his fist as he walked onto the cracked sidewalk. He took two steps, then froze, thinking of Eddie in a jail cell. He probably wouldn't see him – most likely, the cops would escort him to the lobby – but he panicked either way. His hands were clammy, beginning to sweat.

Mike and Stan didn't take long to leave the car and check on him.

“I can't go in there,” Richie blurted. His voice trembled, and he frowned. He couldn't explain why his stomach soured so rottenly all of a sudden, nor did he want to. Perhaps they would understand, but he didn't care.

Then, much to his surprise, Stan squeezed his shoulder and nodded.

“I'll go,” he said. Walking towards the double doors, Stan rummaged through his pocket for his wallet.

“Wait- Stan, the bail-”

“I've got it,” he called back to Richie, waving his hand dismissively.

“No- Stan-” Richie protested, but Stan disappeared around the corner. Huffing, he shoved the money back into his pocket. Beverly would be happy to see their savings unharmed, but neither of them would've wanted _Stan_ to drop so much on bail. He didn't live in Derry anymore; this wasn't his responsibility. Maybe it didn't make sense, but Richie thought that system was perfectly rational.

His hands trembled as he shook a cigarette from his pack, and he struggled to light it. After four failed attempts, Mike plucked the lighter from his fingers, lighting it himself. Richie smiled at him, although it wasn't as big a smile as he was used to. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he tried to calm down.

He knew _why_ he was anxious, but he didn't want to share with Stan or Mike.

If he saw Eddie, he couldn't guarantee to himself things would remain calm. Richie couldn't get the image of him with another man out of his head. Not once in all the years they spent screwing around did he see Eddie wander. Of course, he wasn't stupid. He assumed Eddie had other affairs, but he never had to _witness_ them. Seeing the unfamiliar man meant all of his fears were real.

Richie came close to hooking up with other people (mainly women), but he could never seal the deal. Mike was the first one.

Leaning against the concrete wall, Richie took another drag. His mind raced with memories of each encounter, some he remembered better than others. Every single time they slept together, he considered them friends. Even when he'd screw up, and say something too emotional for Eddie's taste, he thought they were close. Their fighting never stripped them of the status before. Sex didn't mean they had to lose their friendship over every little argument.

Rubbing his palms against his eyes, Richie groaned.

The death of Frank Kaspbrak set off a chain of events which led them here, and Richie hated this path. Had Frank lived, Eddie would still be happy. He'd be the person Richie adored growing up with. It didn't matter if his feelings were returned; Richie doubted he would've verbalized them like he did now. He would've been perfectly content seeing Eddie thriving and happy.

Finishing off his cigarette, Richie searched for a place to throw it.

“You're really gonna litter outside of the police station?” Mike asked, his brow raised. He leaned against the hood of his car, his hands in his pockets as he watched Richie.

Sneering, Richie flicked the cigarette butt onto the pavement.

“I ain't afraid of no cop,” he joked. Throwing back his head as he laughed, Mike held his stomach. Richie smiled and joined him on the car, resting his head on Mike's shoulder. His eyes were closed for a while.

Until he felt a burning glare drilling into him.

Cracking open one eye, Richie rushed to stand up, moving away from Mike. Stan and Eddie stood at the end of the sidewalk, watching them wordlessly. His lips pursed, Eddie swallowed thickly and began to march off.

“Eds! Eddie!” Richie called after him. Hesitating, he looked from Stan to Mike before throwing his hands up and chasing Eddie. They didn't get far; they were just out of sight of the others, around the back of the station. Grabbing Eddie's wrist, Richie dug his heels into the dirt. “Why are you getting so bent out of shape? I'm not doing anything-” Scoffing, yanking himself away, Eddie shook his head.

“I don't care,” he lied. Pausing for a split-second, Richie couldn't help but laugh. The look on Eddie's face was fresh in his mind. He recognized the hurt immediately; he could read him perfectly, and he was grateful that hadn't changed. Scowling, Eddie glared at Richie, his hands on his hips. “What do you want, Richie? You bailed me out, so... what? You wanna hook up, or-”

“Will you fucking stop?” Richie demanded, his laugh ceasing abruptly. No matter how serious the situation, Eddie always deescalated by offering himself up to Richie. Even when he knew the end results would stay the same, Richie took his bait. He tried not to blame himself; he was lonely. Then again, they both were. “Can I remind you that we're _friends_, Eds? We just bailed you out of jail. I'm worried, and it's because I care about you. Remember that? Caring about each other?” Shying away from his accusatory tone, Eddie wrapped his arms around himself.

“If we're such good friends, why didn't you tell me about Mike?” he asked quietly. Richie's mouth hung open in disbelief. He could hardly fathom hearing this from Stan, but Eddie was a different story entirely. Richie had been upset for a while, but it felt like everything stacked too high inside of him now.

“What does it matter, Eds? You don't love me, right? _Pull your pants up, Richie!_ Remember that shit?” he shouted, his voice almost cracking. Eddie flinched, but Richie didn't want to hold back anymore. He wasn't the same delicate teenager who was grieving over a lost father.

“You shouldn't have bailed me out; I can take care of myself,” Eddie grumbled. He turned to walk away, slowing down when he realized he didn't hear Richie coming after him. Pausing, his shoulders slumped. “Do you know what I was doing in the park?” Although he could see an honest yearning in Eddie's eyes, Richie was too angry to care. It was all too little too late.

“Yeah, you were blowing guys for quarters. The cops told me,” he sneered. It had been a long time since he truly fought with Eddie. Of course, the wounded look in his eyes almost made Richie regret lashing out. However, it wasn't enough to stop.

“No, actually, I wasn't-”

“Then what? Were you looking to score something? What is it now? Blow? Speed?”

Staggering back, as if Richie had physically attacked him, Eddie's fists balled at his sides.

“You're unbe-fucking-_lievable_, Richie!” Eddie cried. His eyes were pink around the edges now; Richie thought he saw a teardrop fly out as he frantically shook his head. “You know me better than that!”

Richie laughed again, unable to contain himself.

“_No, actually,_” he mocked Eddie's tone, waving his hands as he did, “I don't.” Eddie's nose and cheeks flushed a deep pink. Another tear slid down his face. “You don't get to decide this for me!” Whether he spoke in reference of _knowing_ Eddie, or the thoughts he currently had about his relationship with Mike (and subsequently, Stan), he couldn't be sure. “You don't get to fuck my life up, and then be mad when I move on! You _can't do that to me!_”

Standing in stunned silence, Eddie's arms fell to his sides. For the first time in years, Richie saw Eddie as he always remembered him. The walls he put up were crumbling to the ground. He didn't expect them to stay down, though. He knew better than to hope, and he couldn't turn back now. If Eddie didn't love him, then that was going to be fine. He wanted them to be friends again, _and_ he wanted the freedom to move on.

“I'm sorry I'm such a drain on you, Richie,” Eddie croaked weakly. He wanted to add a bite to his words, but he couldn't muster the strength. Richie's glare softened; the guilt hit him harder with each verbal blow they dealt. Staring at the ground, Eddie hesitated, before cautiously closing the distance between them. He stopped a foot away from Richie, rubbing his naked arms. “Why were you so hellbent on loving me, Rich? Do you really love me, or did you love who I used to be?” The question hung over them for a seemingly endless moment.

In the car, Richie considered his options with Mike. He told Bev about the differences between him and Eddie; how Mike felt like the friend with benefits, whereas Eddie felt like going home after a long day. He thought it was time to let Eddie go, for his own well-being, even if it hurt in the short-term. Bev didn't say anything, but she kissed his cheek, which usually meant she agreed.

“Eddie, stop. I love you, I do,” he blurted, betraying Mike, and the choices he thought he'd concretely made.

“You don't even know me-”

“Do _you_ know who you are, Eddie?” Richie interrupted, the anger beginning to bubble again. As if sensing the change, Eddie crossed his arms again, physically shutting Richie out. “I don't think you do. Cause the moment you lost your dad-” Flinching at the mention of Frank, Eddie glanced at Richie, his glare gone. “-you stopped. You shut down. You refused to grow up, and I think you dragged me down with you, cause I've been stuck on you the same way. I guess I _don't_ know you Eddie, but I do know that I miss you.” The last three words were unexpected for both of them. Eddie's head snapped up, and Richie stared hard at the ground. “I miss you so much.”

Eddie moved closer to Richie, cupping his cheek in one hand. Both of them were teary-eyed. Both of them knew this moment was a long time coming. They were expecting different outcomes, and their wants had switched within the course of a weekend. Eddie leaned up to kiss Richie, but Richie removed his hand, leaning away. He wouldn't look at Eddie, afraid he'd cave in if he did.

“I'd love you if I still knew you,” he whispered. Eddie's face twisted; he was pained by the admission.

Trying to save himself some dignity, Eddie managed to coldly reply, “I never asked you to love me.”

Richie could've gotten angry again. He could've pointed out all the ways Eddie begged for it; whether he was calling in the middle of the night so he wouldn't have to be alone, or insisting for a second round of sex when they both had work the next morning, Eddie was always the one asking Richie to stay. The only reason he never did, was because he said “I love you,” and scared Eddie into pushing him out.

Instead of a scathing response, or even a cold, indifferent one, Richie sounded sad when he said, “That's right. You didn't.” Their relationship used to be a two-way street. Now, it felt like the skinny, closed off dirt path Richie left Eddie on. Mike and Stan were waiting in the car, but Richie didn't say a word when he climbed inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Dropping the brown paper sacks on the table, Beverly grimaced, finally having her thoughts collected. Unpacking the groceries, Richie eyed her carefully. Naturally, she would have opinions on his idea – he had plenty of thoughts for himself, but he couldn't tell her – and she was rightfully concerned. Probably.

Who was he to say?

“Are you _sure_, Richie?” she asked, leaning against the counter, a jar of peanut butter in her hand. She twisted the cap, dipping her finger in for a scoop.

“I'm not, but I think it's the best way to smooth things over. Or get them _started_ on smoothing over,” he said, shrugging. Their refrigerator was embarrassingly empty, so Richie didn't have much maneuvering to do with the new purchases. The top shelf consisted of one half-empty beer can, and a small dish of old butter. Grimacing, he pulled it out and threw it in the trash.

“So you're gonna put Stan in a cozy booth with his ex and his current girlfriend, and you think it's gonna be okay?” Bev questioned. Crossing her arms, her mouth twisted into a pout, she watched Richie carefully. Since his fight with Eddie, she kept a close eye on him, worried he'd suffer another outburst. For the most part, their week passed without a hitch. They split their time between Mike, and Stan and Patty, evenly. Eddie didn't call, nor did he show his face in town.

Richie knew Bev hated things this way, but he didn't know what to tell her.

“By the way, I'm refilling the jar when I get paid,” he said, changing the subject. Sighing, Bev approached him, placing a hand on his forearm. Richie didn't move. The cold air from the fridge wafted out, chilling both of them.

“Can you promise me something, Rich?” Her voice was softer than normal. She rubbed his arm gently. Soothingly. His shoulders slumped, and he reluctantly faced her. “Promise that you'll try with Mike. I don't wanna lose Eddie either, but... it's time to move on. You said so yourself. If nothing changes this time, that's it.” Giving him a gentle squeeze, she cupped his face to guarantee he didn't look away.

It reminded him of all the times he firmly told her to stand up to her boyfriends.

Suddenly, he could understand why she picked the same wolves in sheep's clothing, time after time.

No matter how hard Richie tried, he couldn't get Eddie out of his mind. It wasn't fair to compare him to Beverly's scumbag dates, but the emotional complexity was close enough. Their need to be loved outweighed everything else. Their addiction to that euphoria tore them apart like any drug could; it affected their daily lives, through their thoughts or actions. It was time for both of them to grow up.

The rainy day fund was always spent somewhere, and perhaps they blew it subconsciously. Perhaps, deep down, Bev and Richie were afraid to leave what was familiar.

“I promise I'll try,” Richie whispered. The words felt empty as he said them, but if Beverly noticed, she didn't call him on it.

With the groceries unloaded and put away, Richie left to change for the date. Mike and Stan were leaving on Sunday morning, and he figured they could make the most of their Friday with dinner. He reserved a table at the fancy Chinese restaurant down the street, knowing they wouldn't run into Eddie or Bill there. His nicest clothes included a plain, button-down yellow shirt, and a leather jacket. He figured jeans would be suitable; his goal for tonight wasn't to get into a relationship.

He wasn't ready for that.

He wanted to bridge the gap between Mike and Stan.

His goal was to make them _all_ proper friends again.

When he climbed into the car with Stan and Patty, he noticed them exchanging glances and smiles. Brow cocked, he leaned forward, between the seats. Squeezing their shoulders, shaking them lightly, he waited for them to explain.

“You guys know something I don't? What? My shirt on backwards?” he asked. Sniffing his collar, he pouted. “Do I offend?” Stan rolled his eyes, driving out of the parking lot. Patty twisted around in her seat, holding her phone out for Richie to see. She pulled up a website, advertising a dance club in Bangor.

“It wouldn't be a crime if we missed our reservations for a little dancing, would it?” she questioned playfully. Rubbing the back of his neck, Richie paused, slightly surprised and annoyed by himself when he realized he was hesitating. He used to dive into new plans headfirst; he didn't even know what the hangup was now.

“I invited Mike,” he blurted. Stan's hand tensed on the wheel, but Patty shrugged.

“Text him the address- better yet, tell him to meet us here. We'll give him a ride,” she insisted. Stan opened his mouth to protest, but shut it promptly. “We have the room! Go on, text him!” Watching Stan for any of his quirks, Richie obeyed Patty's orders, a small grin on his face. Over the last five days, he started to like Patty. She fit into their group easily, filling the empty spaces left by prior members of the club. As a matter of fact, she reminded Richie of a female version of himself. Less annoying, but close enough.

Mike arrived ten minutes later.

The moment he had his seat belt on, Stan turned up the music, and drove off.

Richie held on to the door, laughing nervously at Stan's driving. Of course, with one look to Mike, he remembered this wasn't abnormal. While Stan was a typically fastidious person, there were two areas where he became uninhibited: sex, and driving. Trying desperately not to think of Eddie's fascination with fixing cars, Richie instead focused on the music. He hummed along at first, inspiring Patty to start singing.

It wasn't long before the entire car filled with their mismatched voices.

The hour it took to drive to Bangor passed in a breeze.

Once inside the dance club, the ground beneath their feet trembled with the booming bass. A synthesized cover of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun played over the speakers, urging them to move. Patty took Stan and Richie's hands, and Richie reached out to drag Mike along. Drinks were served in test tube vials; they were nothing more than watered down tequila shots, which Richie assumed was the reason they were passed out so freely.

Patty disappeared after a couple songs, returning with a small piece of cake. Splitting it four ways, she ordered them a drink to wash the edible down.

Dancing made time move faster; Richie felt the effects earlier than he expected. The neon colors swirled around him, and he laughed, twirling Patty. Stan and Mike danced around her as well, keeping her the most popular girl in the room. She kissed Mike and Richie on the cheek, but held Stan's face to kiss him hard on the mouth. Mike took the chance to swing Richie around, kissing the top of his head.

Although he didn't know how much time passed, Richie didn't think it was long before he became dehydrated. Motioning to the bar, he expected to go alone, but instead was joined by Patty. Somewhere in the week they spent together, he transitioned away from calling her Trish. He liked her dorky name, and he liked her alternative, hipster vibes. She worked perfectly with Stan, and anyone could see it.

The music slowed, and Richie propped his arms on the counter, watching Stan and Mike dance.

“Can I ask you something?” Patty shouted over the music. Richie twisted off the cap of his water, nodding. He sipped slowly, savoring each drop. At four dollars a bottle, he deserved to enjoy it. “Stan and Mike used to date, didn't they?” Choking, Richie huffed, staring at the water stain on the front of his shirt. Patty covered her mouth, hurriedly yanking out napkins from a dispenser to wipe him off.

“How'd you know?” Richie questioned, stealing another glance at his friends. Mike twirled Stan, pulling him back closer.

“You just told me,” she said. The music boomed, but Richie could still feel the silence between them. She drank her water quickly, wiping her mouth of her sleeve. “I noticed Stan was stressing out, I just couldn't figure out why. Then I noticed how he acted on the drive up here. Everything was fine until you threw Mike into the mix; it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure this out.” Smiling, she tapped the side of her head.

Nervously drinking from his own bottle, Richie shrugged and said, “They're ancient history. Broke up before college even started.” Although she smiled, there were tears in her eyes. Richie rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. He wasn't high enough for waterworks; he didn't think he could ever be high enough for displays like this.

“You don't think he'd change his mind about me, right? Leave me, or anything like that?” She sounded uncharacteristically pathetic. Richie tried to blame it on the drugs, but he couldn't completely exonerate Stan of any crime. Glancing out at his friends on the dance floor, his brow quirked when he noticed them moving towards the bathrooms. Shaking his head, he grabbed Patty's shoulders firmly.

“Stan's not like that, okay? He wouldn't. Not ever. He'd never screw up with someone who knows him as well as you do,” Richie assured her. Playfully punching at her chin, he hesitated before admitting, “I was jealous, when I first met you. I didn't think anyone could break into our little... you know, unit. We're losers, we're a club, and no outsiders were welcome. You're the first one who's really stuck, and that makes you incredibly special.” Laughing through her tears, Patty nodded, standing on the tips of her toes to kiss Richie's cheek.

“You're a great friend, Richie. Stan's lucky to have you,” she said.

“Likewise.”

Patty smiled at him, wiping her eyes and looking around the club. Spotting another exit, she jerked her head towards it.

“I'm gonna get some fresh air. Keep an eye on those sloppy drunks for me,” she joked. Sniffling, she turned away, disappearing in the small crowd around the door. He saw it open, a change of light pouring through the crack. Once it swung shut, he looked back out to his friends. They disappeared into the washrooms, and Richie bit his lip. Bouncing from heel to heel, he weighed his options.

Of course, he didn't truly have any.

Stan couldn't mess up a good thing the way he and Eddie were. Richie wouldn't let him.

Pushing through the crowd, he followed another person through the heavy door, hiding from view behind him. Stan and Mike went abruptly silent, and Richie could see them through one of the mirrors. Ducking from their line of sight, he held his breath until they spoke again, believing the faceless stranger to be the only one here with them. Much to Richie's relief, they weren't hiding in a stall. They were just... talking.

“So you're allowed to move on, and I'm not?” It was Mike. He sounded tired, but not from the dancing.

“Of course you're allowed, that's not what I'm saying-”

“That's exactly what you're saying.” Both of them seemed frustrated, and Richie frowned, hearing a reflection of himself and Eddie.

“I'm happy for you. I want to make that perfectly clear,” Stan said. His expression was pensive; he took his time picking out the right words for what he wanted to say. “I just need time to get used to everything. I don't think I was ever gonna be okay seeing you with someone new.” Mike scoffed, shaking his head.

“You think it's not weird for me? I thought we were gonna get married, you know,” he said. He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Richie's eyes darted to the door. He assumed Stan was going to cheat on his girlfriend, and he felt like an idiot. He lied to Patty, but he wanted to think at least part of himself believed what he told her.

“So did I,” Stan admitted. “You were my first love, and I've never forgotten that.”

“But?”

“But.” Stan repeated the word back to Mike, fighting a smile. “I love her. She's everything, Mikey.” Reaching out to grab him, Mike pulled Stan in for a hug. They remained in each others' arms for a while; Richie's leg began cramping.

“I'm glad. I wanted you to be happy; I didn't dump you for kicks,” he teased. Gasping, Stan pulled away. Pushing Mike's shoulder, he couldn't help but giggle.

“I'm the one who broke up with you!”

“Sure, sure.” Hooking an arm around Stan's neck, Mike ruffled his hair. “I'm relieved you finally said something. I didn't wanna end up like Richie and Eddie.” Rolling his eyes, Stan nodded in agreement. Immediately, Richie shot up, his knee popping in protest of the swift movement. He thought the high wore off, but he wouldn't have made himself known without some sort of boost. Stan and Mike's head snapped towards him.

Swallowing thickly, he stared his friends down.

“I should... find Patty-”

“She ran outside after she watched you two dancing,” Richie stated harshly. Stan's eyes widened, and he sprinted out of the restrooms, leaving Mike and Richie alone. Neither of them spoke. His fists were balled at his sides, but Richie relaxed almost as soon as Stan was gone. As quickly as the anger ignited, the breeze from the door snuffed it out. He was tired of being frustrated all the time. No one warned him in high school how constant it would be.

For someone who struggled with feelings, Richie sure had a lot of them.

Whirling around, he briskly walked out of the room. Ignoring the people he shoved his way through, he made it to the exit before Mike could reach him. Of course, within seconds, the door burst open again, and he staggered out.

The sky was a pale shade of blue, casting the lonesome hue over the rest of the city. Sunlight crept up, changing the blue to purple, then pink, then orange and yellow. It was only a small sliver of the sky, but it was satisfying to watch. Richie lit a cigarette, offering Mike a drag. Standing against the brick wall, they watched the sunrise, amazed they spent the entire night dancing.

“That was a good edible,” Richie mumbled, stubbing the cigarette on his boot when they finished it. He lit another, sighing out his first drag in a puff of smoke.

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Richie's favorite aspect of his friendship with Mike was how little they had to say to get a point across. Their vibes said everything for them, and he could feel it hadn't changed. He wasn't mad, and Mike was okay with him. Scratching his chin, tapping the ashes off his cigarette, he hoped Beverly wouldn't be too disappointed when he returned home.

“We're friends, right?” he asked. Mike sighed, visibly relieved by the question. His shoulders slumped, and he nodded.

“Friends. Yes. Rich, I gotta be honest; we've always been friends,” he said, preparing to deliver what he thought would be a blow. Mike never had a good poker face, and Richie knew when he was revving up to tell him something he didn't want to hear. This time, however, he was happy to listen. “It's been a lot of fun being back – the sex was great! I just... You're just too-”

“In love with Eddie?”  
“-white.”

Richie nearly dropped his cigarette. Staring at Mike, jaw dropped, he didn't know how to react. A minute passed before a smile stretched across both of their faces. Laughing, Richie smacked Mike's arm. He bent over, his hands on his knees as he cackled.

“I was only trying to lighten the mood,” Mike said, wiping a tear from his eye. Rubbing Richie's shoulder, he pushed him towards the parking lot. If Stan and Patricia saw what time it was, it was doubtful they'd go back inside. “But hey, those were your words, not mine. I think it's good you said them.” Too tired to comment, Richie allowed Mike to lead him to the car.

When they found it, Stan and Patty were asleep in the backseat. Exchanging a glance, Mike motioned for Richie to take the keys. He found them around Stan's finger, and together they buckled the pair in safely. Mike started the car, quietly admiring the vehicle. Richie sighed, leaning his head back as they left Bangor. He turned the radio on, keeping the volume to a low whisper.

Until they reached the outskirts of Derry, the only station they could hear clearly played nonstop grunge from the 90s.

“You know what, you _are_ too white for me, Tozier,” Mike teased, cutting off the radio. Richie pouted, snickering weakly. He hadn't slept, and he was relieved he had the day off.

“Hey, Mikey,” Richie muttered, tilting his head to look at him. Mike glanced over, but for the most part, didn't take his eyes off the road. “Do you think I love Eddie because I need someone to love me back?” Richie trusted him for an honest opinion; Mike never let him down before. None of his friends did, really, but he wanted to hear from someone who hadn't watched them these last few years.

Clicking his tongue, Mike shook his head and replied, “If that were the case, you'd have given up on Eddie a long time ago.” It took Richie's sluggish brain a minute to process the answer, and he considered it carefully. Passing the Welcome to Derry sign, he groaned. He was surprised when he realized how long it had been since he left town. It was embarrassing, but he wouldn't admit it to his friends.

“It's insane, isn't it? How life just keeps moving,” Richie said. His brow rising, Mike stole another peek at him. “I can literally pick up and go at any moment. Nothing's keeping me here. It's different when you've got high school, and your parents, or a college exam. You spend your whole life abiding by these rules-”

“I don't recall you ever _abiding_, Richie Tozier.”

“-shut up! I mean it. You're so used to things being a certain way, and then it all changes and you can't do anything. Even if you take time to adjust, life keeps going on. You can't hit pause, you don't get a fade to black and credit roll,” he said. In this moment, where he was only _just_ sober, and exhausted out of his mind, Richie felt more free than he had in a long time. Seeing Mike's concerned expression in the side mirror, Richie started laughing. “I'm fried, man. Take me home.”

Instantly, Mike was relieved. He laughed, slowing down to match the speed limit.

When they reached the apartment, Mike and Richie shook Stan and Patty until they woke up. Guiding them to the elevator, they helped them to the door. Groggy and grouchy, the two disappeared inside as soon as Richie unlocked the door.

“You wanna crash here for a while?” he offered, reaching out to brush his thumb over the bag under Mike's eye.

“If you'll have me, sure,” he said. Richie opened the door, allowing him to walk in first. Stan and Patty were asleep on the floor, leaving plenty of room on the sofa. Before Richie could get too far though, he grabbed his wrist. “Do you know what you're gonna do about Eddie?” Staring down at their hands, Richie smiled. He gave Mike a squeeze, grateful for the week they had together.

“I still love him,” he confessed. It didn't have to be a shameful secret; he had spent his whole life loving Eddie for a reason. “It's weird to say that, maybe, after all the ups and downs... but I know that I'm always gonna be there for him. He just... he knows where to find me. _He_ has to come to _me_.” Studying him for a brief second, Mike nodded and let him go.

Kicking his shoes off in the hall, Richie yanked his shirt over his head. His jeans were riding low on his hips, but he didn't bother to fix them.

Tapping on Beverly's door, he cracked it open to peek inside. She sat on the edge of her bed, motionless as she stared out the window. Bathed in yellow light, her body only moved with her breathing. At once, Richie panicked. He walked around her bed, expecting to see her face bloody and bruised.

Instead, he saw distance.

“Bev? Babe, are you okay?” he asked. She nodded, not tearing her eyes off the curtain. Grabbing her hand, he sat beside her. “I found a dollar on the ground outside. Figured it could go to the rainy day fund instead of a breakfast burrito.” Nudging her for a laugh, Richie frowned when she didn't make a sound. “Bev, you're scaring m-”

“We won,” she said suddenly. Tearing her gaze from the window, she looked up at him, her blue eyes shining.

“What?”

Holding up one of their scratch cards, she pointed to the numbers.

“We won.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double update today, which concludes this little coming of age story! I hope you all like it!

Walking arm in arm down Main Street, Beverly twirled Richie as she licked her popsicle. Kids continued to run past them, calling out an array of “thank you,” “you're the best,” and “you're cool for a couple grown ups.” When the ice cream truck stopped beside them, Richie emptied his wallet and told the driver to give something to every kid who came up. Beverly scored banana fudge, while Richie picked out his usual rocket pop.

Oddly enough, learning they won the lottery didn't prompt them to instantly quit their jobs. In fact, it made work more enjoyable. Once their four week waiting period was over, and the money was collected, they were free to go.

The pair took a bus to Bangor, after Stan, Patty, and Mike left.

Following the instructions on the ticket, they found the nearest center to claim their prize, signed the ticket, and took off. Meeting with one of the representatives, they filled out the paperwork and showed their card. Beverly panicked when they left the apartment; she brought their licenses, birth certificates, and social security cards. She would've brought along their shot records if she found them in time. Richie didn't understand much of what was said, but he gathered what their final lump sum would be.

Out of the one and a half million, they'd ultimately lose a sizable chunk to taxes - including both now and next March. Neither of them did more than plug in their tax forms to a website to get it done, getting a measly few hundred dollars back which would be gone before the month ended. This would be the first time they'd require real, human help from a professional. He made a note to square part of it away, thinking they could split the rest perfectly down the middle. His mind ran wild with what they were capable of now. Beverly could go to college; they could leave Derry.

“_We've gotta give something to Stan and Mike,” Beverly said as they walked through their front door. The apartment didn't seem the same. It stopped being home the moment they won. Now it was simply a place of transition, holding them until their next home was ready._

“_I was thinking the same thing. A hundred thousand for each of them,” he suggested. Bev nodded, a smile stretching from ear to ear. “They can pay off their student loans, and have some change to start their lives. Mike can start his business.” Richie wrapped his arms around Beverly's waist, spinning her through the living room. She shrieked with giggles, both of them laughing as they landed on the couch._

Dancing with Beverly on the sidewalk, Richie dipped her as low as he could without dropping her.

“Have you heard back from the university?” he asked. If she could start in the fall, they could move as soon as they got the money. Bev already had several apartments bookmarked; their first trip to New York was next week. They planned multiple tours, but both of them wanted to be in Manhattan. She calculated their costs, and if they played their cards right, the million would keep them perfectly cozy until she graduated. By then, she'd be making her own money.

Hopefully Richie would have a budding comedy career.

For several days, he thought he would wake up, and be bitterly disappointed by such a tantalizing dream.

“Not yet, but I only _just_ applied. I think I missed deadlines- I mean, I hope my work speaks for itself, but even if I don't get in-”

“Nope! You don't get to talk like that anymore, Bevs! We won the lottery and we're on fire. You're gonna get in,” Richie said firmly. Bev's mouth curved into a smile. Nibbling on her popsicle, she looked out onto the street. Following her gaze, he grinned. Across the road – on the other side of Bassey Park – they met for the first time. Richie saw Beverly in passing, and his friends were better acquainted, but he didn't hesitate to approach her that day.

“_How are you doing that with the yo-yo?” Richie asked, his head tilted as he curiously eyed the toy. Her yo-yo was shiny, and red. It looked brand new. His was pretty worn; he found it next to the dumpster behind the schoolyard._

“_What? Making it sleep? It's easy, lemme show you!” she exclaimed. Bev pounced on the opportunity to talk to someone, surprised anyone spoke to her at all. His face lit up, and he claimed the empty spot beside her._

He thought a yo-yo would be a great first purchase with all their lottery money. They could find an apartment with a mantle, and keep it displayed their as a token of their friendship. Smiling at Beverly, he paused when he saw her expression change. Looking out at the park again, his brow furrowed as he watch Bill jaywalk. The closer he got, the more Richie put himself between Bill and Beverly.

“What do you want-”

“Richie, stop, it's okay,” Beverly said sternly. Glancing down at her, his mouth twisting into a pout, Richie studied her expression. Usually, she was like a coloring book for him to flip through. It went both ways; they couldn't keep anything from each other. However, staring at her now, she might as well have been a different language. He didn't know what she was going to do.

“Bev, Richie, I-” Bill hesitated, the ghost of his stutter almost coming through. Richie almost forgot he had one. He looked from one to the other, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Bev, I'm sorry about- you know, everything. I'm sorry. It all got out of hand-”

“I know, Bill,” she interrupted him, stepping around Richie to cup Bill's face. Richie opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke over him. “We're gonna be moving soon. Derry's not really our scene anymore, and I hope you find a way out too. I think getting out of here would be good for you.” She pulled her hand off of him then, using it to grab Richie by the wrist. His jaw relaxed, and he lightly kissed her hair.

“Wait, you're-”

“I met someone,” she confessed, the words seemingly pouring out on their own accord. Richie didn't try to intervene; Beverly deserved to have her moment. “I don't think I've clicked with anyone as easily as I did with her, and she's gonna come with us – really, I think I'm more going with her. I'm happy, Bill, and whatever happened with us? It's the past. Neither of us are happy with how it turned out, but I'm happy _now_.” She made no mention of his happiness, but it wasn't her responsibility. Richie wanted to kiss her; he was proud of her confidence. She was suddenly returned to the fearless girl he adored when they were children, smoking cigarettes behind the library and throwing rocks at bullies.

“You guys can't- how are you-” Bill reached out to grab her wrist, but Richie was quick to shove him back. Scowling, Bill raised his fist, but the quick wail of a police siren stopped them both. Turning his head, his fists still clenched, Richie saw Jude Tracker pull up in a patrol car.

“Problem here?” he asked. Relaxing, Richie shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Not with us. I dunno about Denbrough,” he answered. Bill glared at him, but Beverly wrapped her arms around Richie's waist protectively.

“You might wanna keep walking then, Rich,” Jude advised. Sliding his arm around Bev's shoulders, he nodded and led her away from the street. They could hear Bill stuttering, but he didn't dare follow. As they rounded the corner, Richie spotted a taxi. Holding up his hand, he flagged the driver over. Bev's face scrunched when he opened the door for her, but didn't climb in himself.

“I'll meet you back at the apartment. I wanna take a walk,” he said. Her eyes narrowed, and he chuckled. “I cross my heart, I won't go back and kick Bill's ass.” Although only somewhat satisfied, she allowed him to close the door. Hitting the roof of the car, he waved before walking in the opposite direction.

Without a destination in mind, he wandered aimlessly through Derry. Shops he ran past as a kid were boarded up, covered in dust and cobwebs. The Aladdin Theater, his home away from home, was going out of business at the end of the week. All the old arcade machines were untouched, most of them broken. He hadn't fully realized (or perhaps, he willfully ignored) how a large portion of Derry's residents were abandoning ship.

Every step he took, Richie noticed change. There was at least one small memorial erected on every street for someone who killed themselves by driving drunk, and as he passed the school, even a new paint job couldn't stop the unpleasant shiver running down his spine. The further Richie trudged along, the more distaste grew in his mouth. He doubted Derry would crumble, even with the loss of so many people and businesses. This town was an unkillable cockroach, and he was tired of trying to step on it.

Richie wound up at the Kissing Bridge.

After a couple hours of avoiding it, he knew he wanted to come here the whole time. He stood in front of _his_ carving; he passed it a million times as he grew up. When he was twelve-years-old, he found a pocketknife in the Barrens. The treasure was already cool for a reckless boy, but he happened to need it for more serious purposes. He crept from his house in the dead of night, riding his bike through the solemn town.

Even now, almost a decade later, he remembered how cold and crisp the wind was on his skin.

R + E

Richie carved their initials into the bridge, a declaration of his love for Eddie. He doubted Eddie even knew this existed.

Scowling, he raised his leg, kicking the wood. It creaked under his force, and he huffed, kicking again. His heartbeat picked up speed and he rammed his heel against the bridge a third time. A scream – whether of triumph or anger, he didn't know – rose in his throat, escaping when he made contact with the bridge again, and again, and again.

On the seventh kick, the wood snapped, and Richie's leg went over. Wobbling, his arms pinwheeling, Richie lunged over the edge. His face hit the ground, which was fortunately padded with leaves. Their rotting stench filled his nostrils as he rolled down the steep hill. He didn't stop until he reached the stream below, landing spread eagle. His back and shoulder hit several of the thick roots, and his entire body ached when he tried to move.

Lying lamely on the ground, Richie groaned.

“FUCK!” he shouted, running a hand through his damp hair. His glasses were long gone; he didn't have any hope for finding them among the foliage.

Half an hour passed before he moved again. The back of his clothes were soaked, cold from the fast-moving stream. There were leaves stuck to him, most of which he was able to shake off. One pant leg was ripped, with a long, bloody cut running down the length. None of his bones were broken though, which was his main concern.

Sighing, he felt around for his glasses, wasting another half hour before giving up. Of course, as fate would have it, he heard them crunch under his feet, halfway up the hill. Sliding them up his nose, he grimaced. One lens was completely shattered, with a dozen different cracks splitting his view. The other window only had one large break across the center.

Richie tried to focus through the good eye, huffing and puffing as he reached the top. He expected the worst was over until he saw Eddie standing beside the bridge. His expression was blank, refusing to give Richie anything to work with.

Unsure of what possessed him, Richie held up his middle finger.

“You and I have some talking to do!” he shouted, clutching the bridge as he hoisted himself back onto the road. He imagined he looked like shit, but he couldn't have cared less. Eddie stared past him, looking at the broken splinters of wood.

“Our carving-”

“No! Fuck off, for once this isn't about _us_!” On the inside, Richie screamed. Eddie acknowledged the bridge, but at this point, it was the least of his problems. A frustration built inside of him for years now, but his _best friend_ – the same friend he sneaked in to check on, the one he made an extra lunch for, or waited to walk to and from school with – never bothered to ask what was wrong.

Shoving Eddie back, Richie breathed hard through his nose. Eddie's eyes widened, alarmed at being pushed. Scowling, he marched over to Richie, punching his shoulder. There was something incredibly juvenile about their immediate blows, taking them both back to pre-adolescence. Schoolyard fights.

Eddie hit Richie with a right hook, knocking his glasses off. They flew over the bridge, lost once again. Richie screamed, launching at Eddie. He pinned him to the cold pavement, punching him square in the face. Blood leaked from his nose, trailing down his cheeks as he stared up at Richie. They wrestled, struggling to gain the upper hand.

After a moment, however, Richie quit.

He lied on the street, catching his breath. Eddie raised his fist to throw another punch, but stopped when he saw Richie wasn't moving. He hugged his knees to his chest, glaring straight ahead. Neither of them looked at each other; Eddie wiped the blood as best as he could on the back of his arm, while Richie shut his eye in a futile effort to ease the aching swell.

When the breeze stopped, and nothing but dead silence surrounded them, Richie suddenly began laughing. His body protested in pain, but he cackled away, holding his sides as he did. Eddie stared at him incredulously; he feared Richie might've lost his mind.

“Wh- what's wrong with you?” Eddie asked. The concern in his tone outweighed the irritation, and Richie bellowed out another wave of laughter. “What are you laughing at?! Richie, are you okay?”

“No!” Richie yelped, a wide smile stretched across his face as he wheezed. Tears leaked from his eyes, and as Eddie watched him, he couldn't help but giggle. He only stopped when he realized Richie swapped from laughing, to crying. “It's all different, Eds. It's all fucking changed, and I knew it was. I always knew this was coming; I knew when we were juniors in high school, and that rickety old Mrs. Keene told us to pick a future.” Eddie's expression softened, but the worry remained the same.

At long last, he was the one and true Eddie Kaspbrak whom Richie missed all these years.

“What are you talking about?”

“_Everything_, Eds! I knew all of you were going off to start your lives; we couldn't stay in Derry forever. We couldn't hang out in a fucking hole for the rest of our lives. There would be new people, new hobbies, new scars – I wouldn't fucking know any of you anymore, and I was fucking _terrified_. I didn't want things to change,” he confessed. At some point during his rambling, his head found a way onto Eddie's lap. Eddie brushed his hair back, and Richie breathed heavily. His chest felt lighter when he finished speaking. Staring up at him, Richie reached up to brush his fingertips along Eddie's jaw. “We're moving to New York next month.”

The breeze picked up again, whirling stray leaves in a small funnel around them. Eddie didn't move. He stared down at Richie with his mouth agape, and only after Richie sat up did he look away. His gaze immediately went to the piece of the Kissing Bridge which used to be theirs. His mouth open and shut as he tried to think of what to say, but it didn't come to him for several minutes.

“I wasn't... doing what you think I was doing, when you bailed me out of jail,” Eddie finally whispered. Richie frowned, shaking his head. “Don't- just listen, okay?” Staring earnestly at him, Eddie waited for Richie to nod. “I fell asleep there, but that was it. I felt so shitty all day, and I ended up walking around town until my feet were sore. I cried my eyes out on the bench near the restrooms, and then I passed out. When I woke up, I was in a police car.” Richie didn't have to study him to check for a lie. He could see the truth clear as day in Eddie's sad, doe eyes.

“Why were you crying? What happened?” he asked, scooting across the pavement to sit beside Eddie. Resting his head on Richie's shoulder, he sniffed, grimacing at the clot of blood that fell down his throat.

“I missed you,” he answered easily. “I went to the park because I was lonely, and I was scared I pushed you too far away. You're right – everything's changed, and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Richie.” His eyes welled up with tears, but none of them fell. He blinked them back rapidly, shaking his head when Richie tried to wipe his face. “I haven't let anyone in since my dad died. What are you supposed to do when you're on the verge of adulthood, and your dad dies? I didn't have any direction, I was scared... I was in so much _pain_. And just like you, I knew we were all gonna go in our separate directions, and I couldn't take the hurt.”

On more than one occasion, Richie and Beverly discussed privately what they assumed Eddie's problem was. Their theories were close, but it hit differently coming from the source. Eddie's pain felt too real; his isolation and loneliness mirrored Richie's own. He could've been mad that they were suffering in the same silence when they didn't have to, but he was tired of anger. He suddenly felt too mature for it.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around Eddie's shoulders and pulled him close.

“I'm sorry you lost him, Eds. He was a real good guy. The best,” Richie whispered. Eddie choked, sobbing into his chest. Holding him close, Richie let him cry, only asking for the same permission in return. The tears flowed freely from both of them, stored away for far too long.

Eddie pulled away after a while; the sun lowered, hiding behind the trees. Small rays of light peeked through the sparse leaves, forming a spotlight on them.

“I hope you like New York, Richie. I'm gonna miss you so much-” His breath hitched, and he stared down at his hands. “I love you. I mean it, I love you so much, and I'm so fucking sorry for all the ways I hurt you. I wish I hadn't, because you always deserved better. You're amazing, Richie.” Cautiously leaning in, Eddie pressed his forehead against Richie's. “I'm sorry I ruined us being friends.” They remained connected for a moment longer, with Richie being the one to pull away first.

He stood up, dusting the last of the leaves off his body. Helping Eddie to his feet, he hooked their arms together and began walking.

“That's all I get? An _I'm sorry?_” he asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice. Eddie rolled his eyes, pouting as he looked up at Richie.

“Well, what do you want?” He crossed his arms, stopping in the middle of the street. Richie continued to walk, leaving him a couple feet behind before turning back to face him.

“I dunno,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. He shrugged, his arms falling to his sides as he waited for Eddie to catch up. “Maybe you try chasing me for a change.” At this, Eddie paused again. A small smile tugged the corners of his mouth up, and Richie held his hand out to him. “By the way, I don't think _everything_ about our friendship is fucked. If I can bloody up your nose like that, and still like you, I'd say we're doing pretty good.” Groaning, Eddie leaned his cheek against Richie's arm.

“Beep beep, Richie,” he mumbled. Richie pretended to zip his lips, quickly unzipping them when another thought occurred.

“Do you wanna hear how our friends are doing?” he asked, moving his arm to hold Eddie by his waist.

“I'd love that,” Eddie answered, walking down the emptying streets of Derry with his best friend.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told someone on Tumblr that I wanted this ending to feel hopeful, and like a movie where Here's to the Night by Eve 6 would start playing as it faded to black and the credits rolled. I guess you could say this stemmed from my quarter life crisis, and how I felt with my own friends. Shout out to all the other mid-twenty year olds who are really Going Through It.

On the morning of Richie and Bev's move, Eddie was mixed up and wooden in all of his movements. He dropped every bowl and utensil he attempted to use for cereal, eventually giving up in favor of toast. His appetite was all but gone. Listlessly roaming his house, he considered cleaning, but he only managed to take the supplies out of the cupboard before quitting on that idea as well. Checking his email, he marked them all as read without going through them. He didn't want to find new tenants to rent the rooms out to. More than anything, he wanted to be alone.

The tasks took minutes to breeze through, and he rushed to check his phone after each one, hoping to hear anything from Richie.

_He's probably not even awake yet,_ Eddie thought, jittery as he walked back to his bedroom. He stared out of the window, losing track of time. When he finally snapped back into focus, there were still no text messages awaiting him.

Frowning, Eddie made use of his cleaning supplies. He dusted the house, then swept, collecting the mess in neat piles. He vacuumed each load of dust and dirt carefully, as not to spread it again. Once he put the broom away, he traded it for a mop, gliding it over every inch of his wood floors. He checked through each section of his house like a list: counter tops and tables, furniture, ornaments. He polished the mantle, saving it for last.

The first floor of his house hadn't been properly cleaned since Sonia left; he hardly recognized it now.

Glancing at the clock, he saw he managed to spend an hour and a half.

_Come on, come on._

Turning on his phone, his shoulders slumped. No messages.

Throwing it on the couch, he carried as many supplies as he could upstairs. His shift at the laundromat started in five hours, but it only took him two to scrub each room until they were as close to brand new as he could manage. Even with all the time spent, Richie hadn't texted him. Eddie knew _he_ was meant to send the first message, but he didn't know what to say.

He didn't want to beg Richie to stay in Derry, but it was all he could think to do.

Maybe Richie would understand this was him showing his love. He was letting him go.

_Isn't that how it works?_ Eddie thought bitterly. Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair. Richie was leaving, he didn't want to hold him back, and there would be nothing more on the subject.

Except Richie consumed his thoughts all day.

At a quarter to three, Eddie picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts. His thumb hovered over Richie's name, but instead, he found the number to his workplace and dialed. The line rang five times before going to voicemail, and he cleared his throat, bouncing from one foot to the other.

“Hey, it's Eddie. I'm not coming in today, I've come down with something,” he lied. Ending the call, Eddie dropped the phone on his bed, slumping onto the floor. Saying goodbye would hurt too much; he wasn't ready to lose Richie. In the last month, they didn't sleep together once. Hanging out with each other, the same way they used to, came easier than ever. Gradually, they were mending their friendship.

_You could always ask to tag along._ The same thoughts plagued him throughout the day. As hard as he tried to shove them back, Eddie couldn't prevent the ideas from flowing through. He didn't know what to do, and he was paralyzed by what seemed to be the obvious choice.

Frustrated, he gathered a fresh set of clothes and shut himself in the bathroom. Turning on the shower, Eddie tried to clear his mind. He focused on washing himself, taking his time as he ran soapy fingers through his hair and along his arms. When he finally stepped out, his mirrors were fogged. Even wiping his hand over the glass didn't fully clear it up, but he paid no mind as he dried off and dressed.

The moment he walked out of the bathroom, a decision was made.

Tugging on his shoes, Eddie swiped up his keys and called his job again. This time, someone answered on the second ring.

“Derry Laundromat, how can I help you?”

“Hi, it's Eddie Kaspbrak,” he said, breathless as he locked the front door. Removing the phone from between his cheek and shoulder, he marched briskly down the street. “I quit.” Before his coworker could say anything, he ended the call, shoving the phone back in his pocket. He didn't pause at the bus stop; he continued walking, making it across town within thirty minutes. “Richie, I wanna go with you. Richie, I wanna go with you.” He repeated the words like a mantra, smiling at the sight of the moving van in the parking lot.

Choosing the stairs over the old elevator, Eddie took the steps two at a time. His heartbeat was impossibly fast as he came out on Richie and Beverly's floor. A small sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and his knees felt weak, but he suspected it wasn't solely from the exercise. With each step towards the apartment, his heart beat louder in his ears.

“Richie? Bev?” he called out, knocking on the already open door. Almost entirely empty, the apartment felt wildly unfamiliar. Little details – the magnets on the fridge, the open junk mail on the table, Bev's potted plants – were sorely missed. For a second, Eddie thought he got the wrong place. One of the movers emerged from the hall, carrying a box marked “fragile.” Moving aside to let him pass, Eddie blurted, “Do you know if the tenants went out to lunch or something?” While he tried to sound hopeful, deep down, he knew better.

“Nah. Left before we got here; we're gettin' paid to pack this shit and haul it to New York,” the man said gruffly. Eddie's heart sank. Quickly checking his phone again, he thought perhaps he missed a message.

Or a phone call.

Anything.

Richie left nothing, however. He left without a goodbye.

Fighting back tears, Eddie bit the inside of his cheek hard to drive his focus elsewhere. He stormed out of the apartment, once again taking the stairs. Clouds began to block out the sun, and he felt the first raindrops hit his cheek when he reached the edge of Jackson Street. A small worry struck him, and he slowed down, staring at the sky. He hoped Richie and Beverly were safely off the road before the rain reached them.

Returning to his house, Eddie stood on the sidewalk, staring at the place he grew up. Richie used to sneak in every night, whether it was to read a scary comic book or listen to music. He didn't always seem dependable, but Eddie could count on him to show up in his room. It was the only thing to shake him out of his disbelief when Frank died. After the funeral, he sat on his bed for hours. He didn't move; he wasn't positive he did much thinking. He was simply blank.

Then Richie climbed through his window, and nothing had to make sense anymore.

Scowling, Eddie wiped the tears from his eyes. He turned to sit on the curb, but stopped upon noticing his mailbox was wide open. Frowning, he approached it, looking to see if anything was stolen. He didn't know what could've possibly been of value, but from what he could tell, there was no mail.

Then he spotted the small envelope pushed further back.

Curious, he grabbed it, opening the letter. It wasn't properly sealed, nor was it addressed to anyone. He thought it was an empty envelope, accidentally dropped in with old mail, but something slid around inside. Pulling out the letter, he recognized Richie's awful chicken-scratch writing at once.

_Before I go, Eds, I wanna give you some advice:_

  1. _Spruce up your dad's headstone. I know you've been meaning to._

  2. _Get a realtor, and sell the damn house. Sonia's not coming back, and you don't wanna be there anymore._

Stopping at the second line, Eddie froze. Licking his lips (although they remained dry), he cracked open the envelope again. There was another piece of paper; small, rectangular. Pulling it out, he staggered off the sidewalk, nearly falling over. Richie left him a check for a hundred thousand dollars. Reading the note again, he couldn't help but laugh at the final bullet point.

  1. _Catch me if you can._

Below, in the corner of the page, Richie wrote his New York address.

Hugging the note to his chest, Eddie laughed. He looked at his house again, considering the option of giving the property away. He knew where home was, and it wasn't in Derry anymore.

* * *

“Are you gonna come back for fireworks?” Bev asked, pouting as she swirled the Blue Hawaiian in her cup. Richie snickered at the sight; they were in a fancy, Manhattan apartment which widely outshone their old one in Derry, and their bank accounts were ridiculously full for the time being, but they continued to mix their cheap drinks in old Yahtzee shakers.

Kay draped herself over Beverly's lap, reaching up to touch her face.

“Probably. I might hate being a roadie,” she said, shrugging. There was a flyer in her hand, resting on her stomach. She snatched it from a telephone pole, barging into the apartment with talk of touring and expanding her musical tastes. A punk band was in search of help for their first roadshow, and Kay thought it would be fun to travel with them.

“When I asked you to get the remote last night, you said you had Lou Gehrig's disease,” Bev teased. "You're gonna hate lugging around heavy equipment."

Glancing at the time on his phone, Richie stretched and stood up.

“You ladies enjoy your day off; Kay, don't let this one bully you,” he joked. Bev threw a pillow at him, narrowly missing. Richie held up both middle fingers, prancing out of the apartment. He heard them giggling as he shut the door, and he resisted the urge to pop his head back in and make a sex joke.

His hands in his pockets, he meandered down the hall towards the elevator. He offered to cover for his coworker, eager for the first time in his life to go to work.

Their first month in New York passed in a blur. Beverly gained acceptance into the fashion institute of her dreams, and while she waited for the semester to begin, she worked part-time at a cosmetics store. The shop was on route from their apartment to her campus, and paid infinitely better than her job at 7/11. Of course, the cost of living was significantly higher, but they weren't worried about it.

Richie and Bev agreed to save their winnings for rent and bills, working solely for leisure money. It made work a million times more bearable, and it helped when they enjoyed their jobs. Bev came home one afternoon, gushing about a customer who admired the makeover she was given. He hadn't seen her so happy about work – save for the times 7/11 closed early due to weather or robberies. She looked healthier, and Richie hoped she would stay this way.

Upon arriving at work, he realized he was going to be the only one in the booth.

After two weeks of searching, Richie found a gig at a local radio station. They played nothing but old school punk and grunge, which suited his taste perfectly. His coworkers were a total of seven other people, all of whom worked diligently to keep the station running. He covered the weekends mainly, but helped out whenever one of the weekday crew needed time off.

His first time on air, he made up a character on the spot, giving one of his trademark Voices.

“_Tozier, what the hell was that? It's brilliant! Do it again, do it again!”_

His supervisor was in stitches the first time, and a week later, the leader of the crew informed Richie that a caller had requested his character again. When he told Beverly, she teased, “That's great, Rich. You have the perfect face for radio.” She was elated for him though, and Richie realized she worried the same about him, as he did for her.

Richie was only scheduled to work half a day; the woman he covered for wanted to sleep in. He couldn't hide his surprise when she gave the excuse, but he admired her honesty. There were five opportunities to use his Voices, and on a whim, he introduced a new one.

“Signing off for today! You good folks can reach me under the name: Kinky Briefcase,” he said into the mic before flipping the switch. He lightly increased the volume of the music, fading himself out. The glass door behind him swung open, and his coworker came in, holding his sides as he laughed.

“You're a genius, Tozier. Where do you get this shit?” he asked, wiping his eye. Richie shrugged, his hands in his pockets as he walked out.

“There's your answer, Jay. I'm just a genius,” he joked. His coworker waved him off, and Richie left. Exiting the building, he saw the sun had moved to the opposite side; he didn't realize he spent so long at the station, but it wasn't the first time he'd done it.

Sauntering down the sidewalk, he took the first set of stairs down to the subway. Bev hated the crowded cars, and Richie didn't blame her. He understood the experience was much different for a woman, but for him, it was the fastest way of getting home. Plugging in his headphones, tuning out everyone else in the car, he started his music. He leaned his head against the window, almost falling asleep several times.

Normally, he wouldn't move until he reached his stop.

He didn't know what compelled him to open his eyes, but he was glad he did.

On the third stop, most of the passengers left, and were replaced with a less dense crowd. There was a space open beside him, but he didn't hold his breath. Usually, someone would fill it, rather than avoid being close to a stranger.

Peeking at the double doors, Richie's heart skipped a beat.

Eddie walked through, looking around nervously. His face had more color to it than Richie remembered. Their gazes met, which they held for what felt like a long time. The doors to the subway car closed, and they were once again moving before Eddie made his way over to Richie. Sitting beside him, Eddie smiled.

“Took you long enough,” Richie teased, tilting his head to look at him.

“I'm here, aren't I?” Reaching into his satchel, Eddie pulled out a medium-sized rectangular package. “I brought you something, to make up for it.” Feigning surprise, Richie snatched the gift, tearing off the wrapping paper. His expression softened, and his smile stretched wider across his face.

A large chunk of wood sat in his lap, but it was the carving that mattered.

The broken edges were sawed off, but Richie knew this was the real piece of the Kissing Bridge.

“You found it?” he asked, his voice smaller than he intended. Eddie nodded, resting his cheek on Richie's shoulder.

“Took me long enough, right?” he joked, leaning up to kiss Richie's temple.

Richie set his hand on the space between him, and Eddie didn't hesitate to place his own hand on top, holding it for the remainder of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, and commenting, and being as invested in this story as I am. I adore you all, truly.


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